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' 17 ' 



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MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 


Munro’s Elementary School Books. 


GERMAN SERIES. 

No. 1. The German Self-Instructor. Price 25 cents. Being a method of 
learning German on a new and easy plan. By Edward Chamier, Professor 
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structor, intended for persons who are their own instructors, and also 
specially adapted for schools. By Edward Chamier. 


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No. 1. Price 25 cents. By Illion Costellano. Being an Elementary 
Grammar of tlie French Language containing the words most in use, with 
their pronunciation; designed expressly for Young Learners, Soldiers, Sail- 
ors, Travelers, and all persons who are their own instructors. 

No. 2. Price 25 cents. By Lucien Oudin, Professor of French in the 
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practical guide to the acquisition of the Spanish Language. 

Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 

(P. O. Box 8751.) 17 to 27 Yandewater Street. New York. 


A Thom in Her Heart 


BY 

CHARLOTTE M. BRAEME, 

Author of “Dora Thorne.” 


j 





NEW YORK: 

GEORGE MUNRO^ PUBLISHER, 
J7 TO 37 Vanpewater, Street, 


WORKS BY CHARLOTTE M. BRAEME, AUTHOR 
OF DORA THORNE,” 


CONTAINED IN THE SEASIDE LIBRARY (POCKET EDITION) : 


NO. PRICE, 

19 Her Mother’s Sin 10 

Jil. Dora Thorne 20 

/'54 A Broken Wedding-Ring 20 

68 A Queen Amongst Women 10 

69 Madolin’s Lover 20 

73 Redeemed by Love; or, Love’s 

Victory 20 

^6 Wife in Name Only; or, A 

z' Broken Heart 20 

79 Wedded and Parted 10 

1)2 Lord Lynne’s Choice 10 

148 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms. . 10 

/190 Romance of a Black Veil 10 

/ 220 Which Loved Him Best? 10 

237 Repented at Leisure. (Large 

type edition) 20 

©67 Repented at Leisure 10 

249 “ Prince Charlie’s Daughter ” . . 10 

250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Di- 

ana’s Discipline 10 

254 The Wife’s Secret, and Fair 

but False; 10 

283 The Sin of a Lifetime 10 

^■^7 At War With Herself 10 

/' ©23 At War With Herself. (Large 

type edition) 20 

288 From Gloom to Sunlight; or. 

From Out the Gloom 10 

©65 From Gloom to Sunlight; or, 
From Out the Gloom. (Large 
type edition) 20 

291 Love’s Warfare 10 

292 A Golden Heart 10 

293 The Shadow of a Sin 10 

048 The Shadow of a Sin. (Large 

type edition) 20 

^,-294 Hilda; or. The False Vow 10 

©28 Hilda; or. The False Vow. 

/ (Large type edition) 20 

295 A Woman’s War lO 

©52 A Woman’s War. (Large type 

edition) 20 

296 A Rose in Thorns 10 

/297 Hilary’s Folly; cr. Her Marriage 

/ Vow 10 

/ ©53 Hilary’s Folly; or. Her Mar- 

/ riage Vow. (Large type edi- 
tion) 20 

299 The Fatal Lilies, and A Bride 

from the Sea 10 

300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of 

Love 10 

303 Ingledew House, and More Bit- 

ter than Death 10 

304 In Cupid’s Net 10 

305 A Dead Heart, and Lady Gwen- 

doline’s Dream 10 

306 A Golden Dawn, and Love for 

a Day 10 


NO. 


PRICE. 


307 Two Kisses, and Like no Other 

Love.. 10 

308 Beyond Pardon 20 

322 A Woman’s Love-Story 10 

323 A Willful Maid 20 

411 A Bitter Atonement 20 

433 My Sister Kate 10 

459 A Woman’s Temptation. (Large 

type edition) 20 

951 A Woman’s Tempttition 10 

460 Under a Shadow 20 

465 The Earl’s Atonement. 20 

466 Between Two Loves. 20 

467 A Struggle for a Ring. 20 

469 Lady Darner’s Secret; or, Av 

Guiding Star ^ 

470 Evelyn’s Folly 20 

471 Thrown on the World 20 

476 Between Two Sins ; or. Married 

in Haste 10 

516 Put Asunder ; or. Lady Castle- 

maine’s Divorce 20 

676 Her Martyrdom 20 

626 A Fair Mystery 20 

741 The Heiress of Hilldrop; or. 
The Romance of a Young 

Girl 20 

745 For Another’s Sin ; or, A Strug- 
gle for Love 20 

792 Set in Diamonds 20 

821 The World Between Them 20 

853 A True Magdalen 20 

854 A Woman's Error 20 

922 Marjorie 20 

924 ’Twixt Smile and Tear 20 

927 Sweet Cymbeline 20 

929 The Belle of Lynn; or. The 

Miller’s Daughter 20 

931 Lady Diana’s Pride 20 

949 Claribel’s Love Story; or, Love’s 

Hidden Depths 20 

958 A Haunted Life ; or. Her Terri- 
ble Sin . 20 

969 The Mystery of Colde Fell; or, 

Not Proven... 20 

973 The Squire’s Darling 20 

975 A Dark Marriage Morn 20 

* 978 Her Second Love 20 

982 The Duke’s Secret 20 

985 On Her Wedding Morn, and 
The Mystery of the Holly-Tree 20 
988 The Shattered Idol, and Letty 

Leigh 20 

990 The Earl’s Error, and Arnold’s 

Promise 20 

995 An Unnatural Bondage, and 

That Beautiful Ijacly 20 

1006 His Wife’s Judgment 20 

1008 A Thorn in Her Heart 20' 


A THORN IN HER HEART 


CHAPTER I. 

AN UNLOVED CHILD. 

In after years, when people came to know her story, it was 
agreed on all sides that no life had ever been more strange or 
solitary than that of Lady Hilda D unhaven, the only daughter 
of the Earl of Dunhaven. An eagle is alone in its aerie, a 
dove sometimes is solitary in its nest, hermits have lived and 
died without the sound of a human voice or one look at a 
human face, but no solitude, either of mountain, wood or 
desert, could be more complete than that of Hurst Sea, where 
the earl had made his home. 

It was the old story. He had been one of the favorites of 
fortune; he had been wealthy, handsome, talented — blessed 
with every good gift. He had squandered them all: his health 
and strength in riotous living; his fortune in every kind of ex- 
travagance that he could devise. He woke up at the age of 
fifty to find himself ruined in health, strength and fortune; his 
hair had turned gray; his sight had grown dim; the high 
spirits and good nature had all given place to a soured, cynical 
frame of mind. Then Robert, Earl of D unhaven, began to 
wonder how his life should end. 

“ The only thing for you to do, my lord,^^ said his solicitor 
to him, ‘‘ is to marry money. Look out for a city heiress. 

Sad to say, one was found for him — a shy, timid, half-fright- 
ened girl of nineteen, the heiress of a wealthy stock-broker; a 
girl, whose mother had died soon after her birth, and whose 
father knew but one source of interest — one hope, one love — 
and that was money. 

Genevieve Bowden, daughter of Joseph Bowden, who had 
amassed a large fortune on the stock exchange. The equi valent 
of money is rank, and Joseph Bowden had always intended his 
daughter, with her large fortune, to marry into the peerage. 
Either peers were scarce, or none of them passed that way. 


6 


A THORK IN' HER HEART. 


for no offers were made for Miss Bowden ^s splendid fortune. 
Young earls, good-looking baronets, all found heiresses willing 
to exchange gold for rank, but no suitor came to the stock- 
broker’s wealthy daughter. 

She had her dreams of poetry and romance — she had dreamed 
of a handsome young lover, whose fair head should bend over 
her, of a voice that should whisper sweetest words to her, of a 
love that should make her heart beat and her pulse thrill. 
All her dreams came suddenly to an end when she was brought 
face to face with the Earl of Dunhaven, and was told that she 
had to marry him. She looked at the stooping figure, the 
gray head, the eyes dim with having looked on too much of 
the world’s false light. She looked gravely, thoughtfully at him, 
then folded her hands with the calm of despair. A wild desire 
to avoid her fate came to her; then a keen conviction that all 
such attempt at escape was in vain; she had neither courage 
nor bravery to withstand any wish her father might form. 

She married him, and none of the people who crowded to see 
what was thought to be a fashionable marriage knew or under- 
stood that no Eastern market had ever witnessed a more cruel 
sale. Her fortune was large, and the grand estate, the beau- 
tiful house belonging to Havendale were soon restored to their 
ancient grandeur. 

What kind of life the hapless bride-elect who had dreamed 
. of love led with her ill-matched husband no one knew, and no 
one cared. Every day she grew^ thinner and paler, every day 
the youth seemed to die from her. She went to court; she 
gave and attended balls, dying slowly all the time, while the 
earl led the old kind of life. He had one keen desire, and it 
was for a son — for one to succeed him — and when his little 
daughter was born, in his anger he could have fiung the child 
from the castle towers. 

“ A son!” he cried — “ I want a son! Why should Heaven 
refuse me that which it grants to the poorest and lowliest? I 
cry for a son, and they bring me a puling, weakly girl!” 

His anger was unbounded; he had never liked girls; he cared 
only for a son, and a son Heaven would not give to him. 

It mattered little to the poor, pale lady, who never quite re- 
covered. She lived to see her daughter reach her fourth year, 
and then died quietly, as she had lived, without exciting any 
particular attention. All the love and passion in her found 
vent in that her dying hour, when the fair-haired child was 
brought to her, and she cried out: 

“ If God would but let her die with me!” 

The mother’s heart seemed to read by instinct all that was 


A THORN IK HER HEART. 7 

to come; some shadow of the strange fate that was to fall over 
the child darkened that dreary death-bed. 

So Genevieve, Countess of D unhaven, died, and her place 
knew her no more; but after her death a change came over 
the earl. He who had been a spendthrift and a prodigal be- 
came a miser; gold became to him the very breath of fis life; 
he lived but to see it accumulate; he let the magnificent home 
of his forefathers, Havendale Park, for a term of fifteen years, 
and with his little daughter, he went to live at a solitary place 
in Norfolk, called Hurst Sea. 

It was wonderful how soon he was forgotten. The ‘‘ Old 
Earl of Dunhaven,’’ people called him when they spdke of 
him; but few ever so spoke. His old fri^ids were most of 
them dead,, and the younger generation — who cared for him? 
— the miserly earl who let his ancestral home; he died out of 
the minds of nien. There was no aunt or cousin to think of 
the little Hilda, and wonder how she was to be brought up. 
The child was more desolate than one would have deemed it 
possible for a daughter of the noble house of D unhaven to be. 
The house at Hurst Sea was an old one; it had been for many 
generations the property of the Hunhaven family. Why they 
kept it now no one knew. Legends were told of one strong 
room where a madman, one of the D unhavens, had spent his 
life. There was another story of a pale, fair woman who died 
there, crying with her last breath that treachery had killed 
her. 

Every one knew the history of the Lady Mora Hunhaven, 
whose portrait was the gem of all the pictures in the long gal- 
lery at Hunhaven — a fair girl, with golden hair and a mouth 
like a cloven rose. The story tells how she loved a young 
soldier, and he was sent away to the wars. She was told to 
marry a Scotch lord, but grief for the loss of her lover drove 
her mad; then she was sent to diurst Sea; there she had lived 
until the golden hair had grown gray, and the sea sung her 
requiem. There were no cheerful memories connected with 
the old Elizabethan house; there was not one cheerful story 
told of it or one cheerful room in it. 

A tract of green land separated it from the sea, but when 
the tide rose high the green land was under water, and the 
waves washed the great iron gates that defied all their efforts 
to enter. A great, dark, gloomy house, that looked tragically 
solemn in the light of the setting sun. 

At the back a great fir wood stretched, even to the moors; 
then came the pretty little town of Erlclif. The house itself 
was large enough to have sheltered a regiment of soldiers. 


8 


A THORN IK HER HEART. 


Some of the rooms were never opened, some had fallen into a 
picturesque state of ruin — all alike were large, lofty., dull and 
solemn; the corners were full of strange shadows; strange 
noises sounded through the long, dark corridors; strange wail- 
ings came from the windows and doors; the dark, vaulted hall 
looked like the very place for a ghost; strange stains darkened 
the oaken floors, and there were stories of murder done in the 
grim silence of night not pleasant to hear. Such was the 
house where the old earl, once a handsome spendthrift, chose 
to live. 

He brought two servants with him — Stephen Homes, who 
acted as butler, footman and valet, with his wife, Joan, who 
was a general servant and housekeeper in one. To these he 
added a third person — a faded spinster of fifty — to whom he 
intrusted the entire charge, education and management of his 
only child — the little daughter whom he hated. The burden 
of his complaint during these years was that he had “ no son.^^ 

Leonard Darel was his next of kin, and Leonard Harel would 
be Earl of Dunhaven when he died. 

It was the strangest household in England, For himself, 
the old earl had chosen the two best rooms; he spent his whole 
time in them, reading, writing, and, it is but just to add, 
drinking the finest wines that money could buy. His interest 
in the outer world was all dead. Here he counted his money 
— by some strange oversight the whole of his wife^s money had 
been left to him; here he thought over the purchase of shares^ 
the validity of bonds. Here, % some wonderful fortune, he 
seemed to turn everything into gold. He never saw his child ; 
he never asked for her; if by chance he met her in any of those 
dark passages, he frowned upon her, and she ran away, fright- 
ened, from him. He never asked about her studies, her com- 
forts, her likes or dislikes. He grumbled when the faded 
spinster. Miss Darwin, asked for a quarter's salary. Why ' 
had he no son? How different life would be to him if he had 
a son! 

When Miss Darwin mildly suggested that Lady Hilda must 
have dresses, he said that anything would do for her. There 
would have been some pleasure in dressing a son — there was 
none in providing clothes for a daughter. 

When Miss Darwin found that she was left entirely to her- 
self, and that whether she did her duty or not, it was all the 
same — whether she gave the child her lessons or not — she 
neglected them; there was no one to blame her, no one to re- 
monstrate with her. The consequence was that the child ran 
wild just as she would; she spent her time in dreaming over 


A THORK Iiq- HER HEART. 


9 


the old house, in weaving romances about the dark, gloomy 
place; and the result of such a training was the story we have 
to tell. 


CHAPTER 11. 

AK ORPHAK. 

‘‘ Sixteen years old, and I do not remember that I have 
enjoyed myself for one hour,^^ said Lady Hilda Dunhaven. 

It was the close of a dull autumn afternoon, and Miss Dar- 
win, urged by some unusualsense of duty, had taken her young 
charge out for a walk. In the far distance the washing of the 
waves on the low-lying shore was plainly heard; looking forth, 
there was the blue line of the restless sea; from the pine woods 
came a low, sad murmur; the sun was setting in the western 
sky, and the lurid light was such as goes before a storm. The 
scenery was cheerless; there was no gay song of birds, no 
flutter of green leaves; the tall, gaunt figure of the chaperon 
was quite in keeping with the scene. 

“ I should, not know there was such a thing — such a word — 
as enjoyment, if I had not read it in books, continued Lady 
Hilda. 

“You have plenty to eat and drink, said Miss Darwin. 
“ What more do you want?’^ 

“ A very great deal,^^ was the decided answer. “ I do not 
think any girl in the world has ever had such a life. Why do 
I go nowhere? Why do I know no one? All the girls I read 
about have, friends, relatives, sisters; they go out; they see 
visitors; in all the stories I read there is not one wherein the 
heroines are shut up in a gloomy, dull old mansion like ours. 
There are times when even the echq of my own footsteps 
frightens me. 

“I can not see why,^^ said Miss Darwin, abruptly. “ It is 
a very easy thing to fill your head with all kinds of nonsense, 
Hilda; but there is no sense in such things. ” 

A half-dreamy look came over the girPs face, as she an- 
swered, slowly: 

“I have never stopped to think of the sense or want of 
sense. I know, when the night begins to fall, great shadows 
come and go in the lonely rooms; I can hear great sighs that 
come from no mortal lips; I can hear the sound of hurrying 
footsteps more plainly than I can hear the moaning of the sea. 

I hear, and I long for the time when my ears shall be filled 
with other sounds. If this be life, I wish I had never been 
born. ^ ^ 


10 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


Miss Darwin turned from her— for this lady knew no higher 
pleasure than comfort, plenty to eat and drink, a well-fur- 
nished room, good fires in the winter, cool shade in the sum- 
mer. She wanted no more.' To the hundred vague, beauti- 
ful longings of a girTs heart she was blind and deaf. 

“ I am not very old or very wise,"’"’ continued Lady Hilda, 
“ but I have gathered this much from the books I have read 
— that it is better to be resigned to the inevitable; yet I won- 
der until I am sick of wondering, why the inevitable is so hard 
forme. 

She stretched out her hands with a low cry. 

‘‘ I am so lonely,^’ she said; so desolate. My father never 
seems to remember that I live at all. 

“ Your father was disappointed that you were not a boy,"” 
said Miss Darwin, calmly. 

How can I help that?’"’ cried the girl, with a fiush of hot 
passion. “ I would ten thousand times rather have been a 
boy, and have fought a man^s fight with the wprld, than a 
girl, shut up here, my whole life a living death. l am sixteen, 
and, looking back, it seems to me that I have lived a hundred 
years in that dull, shadowy house, with the moaning of the sea 
and the wailing of the wind — a hundred years, she repeated, 
with a passionate clasp of her hands. “ If the sea rose now 
and washed me away — as I wish sometimes it would do — I 
should die without having known what life means. I ask my- 
self often if my father be human, that he does not remember 
my youth and its wants. 

This was quite beyond Miss Darwin. She looked around on 
the darkling sky and the distant sea. ^ 

“ We had better go home,'’^ she said, ‘^d'oan promised to 
make some muffins, and they are not nice when they are cold. 
What are you laughing at. Lady Hilda? "^You are so strange; 
I can never understand you."’"’ * ^ 

For the young girl had stopped suddenly in her passionate 
declamation and laughed. 

‘‘ What are you laughing at?^^ cried Miss Darwin. 

“ I talk to you about my lonely life, and how my very heart 
and- soul hunger after a new life, and you have no better com- 
fort to give me than a hot muffin. How foolish I am to talk 
to you! Go home, and eat your muffins in all comfort; I am 
going to the sea. 

With quick, rapid, light steps, she crossed the broad tract 
of green land that faced the sea, leaving Miss Darwin to gaze 
after her with wide-open eyes. 

‘‘ That girl will go wrong in life,'' she said to herself, as 


;A THORK IK HER HEART. 11 

she walked home. ‘‘The Dunhayens are all alike — mad 
either with impulse or pride. 

She walked through the gathering shadows of the night, 
and enjoyed the warm muffins none the less because there was 
no one to share them with her. Lady Hilda walked down to 
the sandy beach, the passion of sorrow growing in her; the 
waves came in slowly, they broke, with a gentle, wailing sound 
on the shore; no boat, no ship broke the great, wide calm; no 
ripple of sunlight touched the waters; no silver gleam came 
from the lady moon — all was gray, sad and silent. 

“ Like my life,^^ cried Lady Hilda, as she knelt on the 
sands, holding out her hands that the salt water might run 
over them. “ Like my life, v/ithout a ray of light or color. I 
am an earFs daughter, and no peasant's daughter in the vil- 
lage is so lonely, so neglected. I wonder, if I went out into 
the world, if people Would like me? I wonder wbat I am like 
in the eyes -of others. Oh, beautiful, listless sea, you are the 
only living thing I love, and my heart is restless as you.^^ 

What was she like, this lord^s daughter, who envied the 
humble fisher girls, who had never known the sunlight of love? 
She was tall and slender; the supple, pliant figure gave promise 
of wondrous grace and symmetry; the fair, girlish face gave 
promise of wondrous beauty in the time to come. 

She was a school-girl now, with the dawn of a sweet and 
beautiful womanhood opening before her^ — unformed, uncon- 
scious now, with the faint, fair promise of a lily blossom. A 
thoughtul face with a wonderful power of passion in it; deep, 
t^ne eyes, fuH of poetry; lips whose every smile would be a 
poem in the years to come. 

She was quite unconscious of her beautiful promise. Ho 
one had ever praised her fair face or kissed the half-sad, half- 
smiling lips; no hand had ever lingered on the golden hair, 
while no loving lips praised them. Joan, in her quaint fashion, 
had called her a “ bonny lass,^^ but then she called Lizzie, 
the. fisher girl from Erlclif, “bonny'" — there could be no 
great compliment in that. Once— years ago, when the girl's 
heart within her first woke to life, she had asked Miss Dar- 
win if she were pretty, and that lady had answered that 
“ handsome was as handsome did," and Lady Hilda had never 
repeated the question. She was quite unconscious of the 
beautiful promise of her womanhood. 

She knelt now with her white hands in the cool salt pools, 
crying out to the passionate, restless sea— the only living thing 
she loved. 

There were times when her youth rose in hot rebellion 


12 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


against the strange, unnatural life of gloom and confusion; 
times when she hated the dull house and the ribbed sand, the 
fir-woods and the moor, with a fierce hatred; when she longnd 
for the sight of a young face and the sound of a young voice; 
when all the passion of her nature, the longing of her youth, 
the vague, beautiful desires that had no name, rose in fierce 
revolt. Then there was no human appeal; her father would 
have laughed or sneered; Miss Darwin did not understand; 
and Joan — she could not confide in Joan. In those restless, 
passionate hours she rushed away to her only friend, the rest- 
less, passionate sea— there seemed some little comfort in the 
waves. She understood something of what they said; their 
music was plain and clear to her. There were times when 
she longed for those clear, green waters to carry her away. 
She was only sixteen, and had never had one day^s happiness, 
and she was tired of her life. 

bright fell over the waters; the clear little pools had gone 
back with the ebbing tide, and she sat there on the sands, her 
fair, sad face, with its dreamy eyes raised to the evening skies, 
surely the most lonely and desolate girl in the land. No one 
missed her, no one cared where she was; no one inquired about 
her — she was more utterly alone than any other human being. 

The restless sea grew still; the white clouds that had sailed 
over the surface of the sky had floated away; the sea-gulls 
grew tired of play and soared afar off; the wind fell; the whole 
world grew silent with the dreamy, mystical shadows of night. 
The slender figure and fair, girlish face stood out in bold relief 
against the background of yellow sand and blue sky. It was 
growing late, but she was not anxious; there was no one to 
miss her. 

More vividly than ever there rose in her heart the longing 
to float away on the silent sea, and leave the life that held no 
promise. 

“lam sixteen, and an earTs daughter, she said to herself. 
“ Some girls at sixteen have a life as bright as opening day. 
I may live here ten, twenty years longer, without one hope or 
one promise. Better to lie out here on the sands and die than 
to live two more such years. 

blight came at last; the gray tints of the water mingled with 
the gray tints of the sky; the waves rose and fell with a sob, 
as though the waters were weary. Then she rose to go home; 
the silence and mystery of night had done what it always does 
to human passion — it had soothed and calmed her. She 
walked across the yellow-ribbed sand over the greensward. 


A THORK IK her heart. 


la 

There, in the solemn light, stood the great, gloomy house. 
She looked up at the windows, so dark and mysterious. 

‘‘ I could fancy a ghostly face looking at me from each win- 
dow, she said. “ I know how the shadows lie in every room; 
I know the great sighs and strange sounds that make the long 
passages so terrible. 

She stood still for a few minutes, watching the house; and 
as she stood there, with the solemn, silent night around her, a 
deadly chill, a deadly fear seemed to infold her — a presenti- 
ment of some • coming dread, of some indescribable horror. 
She hastened^ to the house. Joan met her at the door — Joan, 
with a scared face and wild eyes. 

I was coming to look for you, my lady,^^ she said. ‘‘ Your 
father is dead!^'’ 

“ Is what, Joan?^^ asked the horrified girl. 

“ Your father is dead, my lady,'^ repeated Joan, as she 
closed the ponderous door; ‘‘ and Miss Darwin wants you at 
once in her room. 


CHAPTEE III. 

LOHGIHG FOR LOVE. 

‘‘Dead!^^ Lady Hilda Dunhaven repeated the word with 
more wonder than sorrow. It was a new word to her. She 
had seen little enough of life, but she had seen even less of 
death; she hardly knew what it meant. She had never seen 
death; she had but a faint notion of what it meant. She said 
the word over and over again to herself as she went up the 
great staircase. It was but fancy, yet it seemed to her as 
though from every corner she heard the whisper of that one 
word, ‘‘ Dead!'’^ What was death like? she wondered, as, 
white, cold, and shuddering, she hastened to the room Miss 
Darwin called her own. 

For once in her life, that lady was roused from her apathy, 
and the sight of her emotion was almost more wonderful than 
the fact of the death. Miss Darwin^’s face was pale, her eyes 
dim with tears, her voice broken with emotion. 

‘‘ Your father is dead, my dear she cried, taking the girPs 
passive hands in her own; and Lady Hilda repeated the word 
“ dead."*^ “ Poor child, you do not seem to understand it.^^ 

“ 1 ^ 0 ,” she replied; “ I do not understand it. I have never 
seen death. How was it? Tell me. Miss Darwin.'’^ 

She stood before her calm and still, her young face white 
with fear and wonder, but no realization of what had hap- 
pened. , 


14 


A THORK m HER HEART. 


“ There is so little to tell, yet it is all so dreadful. The 
poor dear earl must have been dead when we went, Hilda. 
Only think of it! He took luncheon as usual at one o^clock, 
and Stephen left him with a bottle of claret just opened. He 
was the same as usual. He told Stephen that he must not be 
disturbed; he had some writing to do. At seven o^clock 
Stephen went to speak to him, and found him dead in his chair 
— not only dead, but cold.-” 

She stopped abruptly, and Lady Hilda repeated the words in 
tones of wonder: 

‘‘ Cold — dead and cold! Poor papa!^^ 

“ He must have been dead for some hours,” continued 
Miss Darwin. ‘‘ Of course I sent Stephen at once for a doc- 
tor, but all the doctors on earth could do him no good. ” 

The wondering eyes looked fixedly at her. 

‘‘ Why did he die?” she asked, slowly. What killed 
him?” 

Her lips were white and stiff, her voice sounded strangely 
in its unnatural calm. 

“ He died of heart-disease, my dear. Doctor Hudson says 
that he has consulted him several times about it. Everything 
has been done for him. You would like to see him, of 
course?” 

‘‘ See him? He is dead, you say?” 

“ Certainly, he is dead; but you would like to look at him, 
would you not?” 

“I do not know; I should be frightened, I think. Miss 
Darwin,” she answered. 

“Just as you like, my dear. You know, of course, what a 
great difference this will make in your life. I have sent for 
Lady Darel and Mr. Leonard — Lord Dunhaven he will be 
now. ” 

Lady Hilda looked at her with wondering eyes. 

“ Lady Darel? who is she? Who is Lord Dunhaven? I do 
not understand in the least. ” 

Miss Darwin sighed. 

“Heaven forbid,” she said, “that I should say one evil 
word of the poor dead earl, but he might have trusted you a 
little more, his own child. He forbade me ever to talk to you 
about family affairs.” 

“ He did not love me,” said the girl, sadly. 

“ No, he did not; he wanted a son, and he seemed as though 
he could not forgive you for coming in the place of a son. ” 

A quiver of pain passed over the girlish face. Miss Darwin 
continued: 


A THORK m HER HEART. 


15 


‘‘ Mr, Leonard Darel is the late earFs next of kin and heir, 
lie succeeds to the title and estates. He will be the thirteenth 
Lari of Dunhaven. Havendale Park, Fair Oaks, and this 
house will go to him. He takes your father ^s place. 

‘‘ My father^s place murmured the girl, sadly. “ Who is 
Lady Darel 

Miss Darwin looked up with a little more animation. 

“ Lady V Darel is the young earPs mother, she replied; 
‘‘ and I have heard that she is considered one of the proudest 
women in England. 

“ Why have you sent for her?’^ asked Lady Hilda. “ What 
shall we do with a proud lady here?^-’ 

“ My dear, I had no choice in the matter,^^ said Miss Dar- 
win. ‘‘ These are your nearest relations.^'’ 

“ My near relations, yet I have never seen them, and they 
. have never, perhaps, even heard of me. 

Miss Darwin shook her head wisely. 

“ Ah, my dear, you have been of more consequence to the 
world than the world has been to you. Your life will all be 
changed now. 

“ Why?^^ asked Lady Hilda, suddenly. 

Miss Darwin smiled. 

“ You do not know that you will have your mother ^s fort- 
une?’-' she said; “ you have never heard of it even?” 

Ho,” replied the girl, calmly. “Ho one has ever spoken 
to me of my mother. I did not know that she had a fortune.” 

“ She had a very large one, and it is sure to be yours now,” 
said Miss Darwin. “ Lady Darel will, of course, take you 
under her charge; she will bring you out; you will take your 
2Droper place in the world now. ’ ’ 

“My proper place?” said Lady Hilda. “ Do you mean to 
tell me that liberty, fortune, pleasure are all come through my 
father’s death? It is horrible even to think of! How shall 
I take my place in the world? I know nothing, I can do 
nothing; I have had no training, no education.” 

“ You are not very complimentary to me. Lady Hilda. I 
have done my best. ” 

“ It has been a very poor best,” said the girl, sadly; “ for I 
am quite ignorant.” 

“ It will not matter,” was the answer; “ money is every- 
thing. If your mother’s fortune comes to you, you will be 
more sought after than the wisest and best-educated of wom- 
en. You will have money and rank. Ho one could desire 
more. ” 

“ Money and rank.” The words seemed to mingle strange- 


16 


A teORK m HER HEART. 


ly with those other words, ‘‘ dead and cold.-’^ It was like 
some horrible jingling rhyme. She said them over and over 
again. 

Neither she nor Miss Darwin thought of going to rest. At 
stated intervals Joan brought them strong tea, and there was 
a great deal said about “ keeping up,^^ and not breaking down. 

They sat and watched through the long, silent night. 

Miss Darwin talked incessantly, and her one subject was the 
large fortune coming to Lady Hilda, and all it would do for 
her. She explained to her that no estate belonged to her, 
everything to the new earl, and the girFs mind was bewildered 
between the novelty of death and the novelty of the coming 
fortune. She was lost. 

‘‘ I may have money, she said to herself. ‘‘ I shall prize 
money; but if I had been offered my choice I would far rather 
have had love; love seems to me the most precious gift on 
earth.-’’ 

She fell asleep with these ideas all struggling for pre-emi- 
nence in her mind — her father’s death, the coming fortune, 
and her one great longing for love. 

It was strange on the next day to find the gloomy house even 
more gloomy, with the darkened windows and closed doors, 
with the awful presence of the King of Terrors. 

Lady Hilda would fain have gone to the sea, would fain 
have listened to what the waves had to say about her new life, 
but Miss Darwin assured her it must not be done; that if 
Lady Darel should come and find her out she would be seri- 
ously displeased, and Lady Hilda was compelled to yield. 

Another long, silent day passed, and on the morning of the 
next they came. Lady Hilda was alone in her room. She 
heard the sounds that announced the arrival, she heard the 
subdued voices, the hushed footsteps, and she waited in a fever 
of suspense. It seemed to her hours before Miss Darwin 
came for her. Then that self-satisfied lady looked as if she 
had been roused from her calm. 

“ Come quickly. Lady Hilda,” she said. “ Lady Darel 
has asked to see you, and we must not keep her waiting.” 

“ What is she like?” asked the young girl, eagerly. 

Miss Darwin raised her hands and eyes in wonder. 

“ Like no one I have ever seen. She is magnificent, but 
proud as a queen — prouder than the Queen of Sheba herself, 
and so beautifully dressed. ” 

I have never seen anyone beautifully dressed in all my 
life,” said the young girl with a sigh. 

Then holding Miss Darwin’s hand tightly clasped in her 


A THORN" IN" HER HEART. 


17 


own she went to the large, bare, ilT-furnished room called by 
courtesy the drawing-room. At first her eyes were dazzled. 
She saw a tall, handsome woman of queenly presence and fair, 
blonde beauty, superbly dressed, her white hands shining with 
jewels, a lady who looked up in haughty surprise as she en- 
tered, but neither moved nor addressed her. 

There were a few moments of awkward silence, then Miss 
Darwin said: 

“ Your ladyship expressed a desire to see Lady Hilda — she 
is here.^'’ 

Then the arched eyebrows were raised, and the proud eyes 
rested on the girl in silent wonder. 

Lady Hilda, she repeated, in a tone of surprise, “ I beg 
pardon — I had no idea,^^ and the proud glance fell with sig- 
nificant meaning on the shabby dress and the worn shoes. 

Lady Hilda,^^ she repeated, “ pray excuse me, I was so en- 
tirely unprepared for — for this kind of thing. 

She waited a few minutes before giving her hand to the 
trembling girl, then bending her head she touched the pale 
face with her lips. 

I am very sorry for your trouble,^'’ she said; but really 
excuse me, is it possible that I am speaking to the late earFs 
daughter?^’ 

The proud face said so plainly that she could not believe the 
shabby, untrained girl before her was a daughter of one of the 
noblest houses in England. Lady Hilda read the thought. 

‘‘ You are surprised to find me so badly dressed and without 
any manners,'’^ she said, calmly. “ It is not my fault; I am 
an earEs daughter, it is true, but I have envied the fisher 
girls. 

‘‘ You speak freely,^^ said her ladyship; that is not good 
manners. I must see about getting you some decent dresses at 
once. What could the earl have been thinking about? 

Her face flushed suddenly as they heard the sound of foot- 
steps. 

“ That is my son,^^ she said. “ Lord Dunhaven.^^ 

Her eyes added, plainly, ‘‘ What will he think of you?’^ 

The door opened and a young man entered the room. 

Despite her fears and timidity. Lady Hilda looked at him 
with interest. She had seen so few young people in her life. 


18 


A THOKi^’ IK HER HEART. 


CHAPTER IV. 

‘^MEK HIE AS THEY HAVE LIVED. 

Hale an hour had elapsed since Lady Hilda first stood 
trembling before the proudest woman in England. In a few 
hurried words she had introduced the new Lord Dunhaven to 
the'late earPs daughter. He had looked at her with eyes so 
utterly indifferent that he had hardly seen her; he did not give 
two thoughts to her — a schooLgirl, who had just lost her 
father — a tall, slender, unformed girl. He noted the coaTse, 
ill-fitting dress and the worn shoes; he noted the general want 
of elegance, and no interest awoke in his heart for her — he 
merely bowed. 

“ I am sorry for your loss,^^ he said, in what he considered 
a proper and fitting tone of voice; then turning to his lady 
mother, he made some inquiries about business, and forgot 
even the existence of Lady Hilda. 

He was the first young gentleman she had seen — his was 
almost the first young face on which her eyes had rested, and it 
delighted her. She wished he would address her again, but 
he had no thought of doing so. The old-fashioned chairs, on 
which he looked with such contempt, were more to him than 
the slender, unformed school-girl in the shabby dress. 

The only emotion that passed through his mind was one of 
wonder that such a girl should be Lady Hilda Dunhaven. 

Then the door had closed behind him again, and the strange, 
sudden vision of youth had vanished. Lady Darel turned to 
the young girl. 

“ I am sorry to find myself compelled to make the observa- 
tion,^^ she said; “ but have j^’ou no other dress — no better 
shoes? lam ashamed that my son should have seen you in 
this unseemly guise. 

The fair face flushed hotly, the pride of the whole race of 
the D unhavens seemed to wake in her heart as it never 
had awoke before. 

“lam sorry,^^ she said, “ but I can not help it. I have 
neither dresses nor money. 

Lady Darel turned to Miss Darwin angrily. 

“ It seems to me,” she said, “ that you might have seen to 
this. You have had the care of Lady Hilda — such care as it 
has been. ” 

Miss Darwin was not one of those ^who bear blame patiently. 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


19 


^he told how she had over and over again asked for money, 
.or clothes, for books, for the most common necessaries, and 
had always been refused. 

The earl must have been mad,’^ said Lady Darel. “ What 
did he think his daughter would be like? I have no idea what 
is to be done. I expected, of course, a young lady like other 
young ladies — not a girl utterly without culture and educa- 
tion."" 

‘‘ I have educated her myself,"" she said, defiantly, “ and no 
Dunhaven could be quite uncultured. "" 

Lady Darel looked positively reheved. She was pleased to 
hear Miss Darwin assert herself. She smiled more pleasantly. 

“We must do the best we can,"" she said. “ I will order 
mourning at once, and we must see what can be done after- 
ward. I will see you again this evening. Miss Darwin, per- 
haps you could do some little toward putting Lady Hilda"s 
hair in order. I am quite ashamed of that."" 

For the long, rippling hair would not brush out straight or 
submit to be twisted in any proper form — it always rebelled 
and would curl its own way. Quite crest-fallen and humiliated. 
Lady Hilda and Miss Darwin retired from the imperial pres- 
ence of the proudest woman in England. 

“ Am I so bad as that?"" cried Lady Hilda, passionately. 
“ Am I so bad as she thinks — shabby and careless? She looks 
at me as though I came from another world. It is of no use, 
I may as well stay here until I die, for I shall never be like 
Lady Darel. "" 

Miss Darwin was at a loss what to say; she knew that she 
had in some measure neglected the girl; but then she com- 
forted herself by saying that it would have been quite useless 
for her to have done anything else. The only comfort she 
could give Lady Hilda was talking to her about her mother"s 
fortune. . All would be well when she had that : no one would 
see anything amiss in her when they knew she was Lady Hilda 
Dunhaven, the heiress. 

So the young girl comforted herself, but her mind was all 
chaos, no clear thoughts came to it; her father was dead — all 
her life was to change. She had seen a face she could not 
forget. She was to be a great heiress. Lady Darel looked on 
her with contempt. All these new ideas fiitted through her 
mind, not one was clear; they seemed to be mixed altogether 
in the most curious fashion, and she said to herself that they 
would never be clear until once more she could sit and watch 
the restless sea. Of course it would be highly improper if any 
one found her out; but in the evening Lady Darel would be 


20 


A THORK m HER HEART. 


engaged, and Miss Darwin would not miss her, then she could 
go. 

She waited until evening, then stole away to the only spot 
on earth where she felt at home. The face of the restless sea 
was to her as the face of an old and dear friend. The waves 
sung strange rhymes to her. 

“ You are a great heiress; your father is dead; your life is 
all changed; the great lady treats you with contempt. You 
have seen a nice face — a face you like,^^ they repeated over 
and over again without intermission; yet it comforted her. 
She could think more clearly by the sound of the heaving, 
restless sea. She sat there until the confusion became more 
clear, until she was mistress of her own thoughts, then she 
went home. 

But as she was hurrying over the sands she met the young 
earl face to face, and stood still with a sudden frightened cry. 
But for the cry in all probability he would not have noticed 
her; as it was, he stood still and looked at her. 

“ You will not tell that you have met me?^^ she said. “ I 
thought no one would know. 

He laughed carelessly. 

“ I might be more interested in the matter if I knew who 
you were,’’^ he said. 

Then she raised her fair young face, and he looked at it with 
smiling indifference. 

“ Do you not know me?^^ she asked, and the thought 
crossed her mind that she had only seen him once. Yet she 
would have known him anywhere and in any place. 

“ No, I do not indeed,^^ he replied. “ Ought I to know 
.you?"" 

“ I am Lady Hilda Dunhaven,"" she answered, and in one 
moment his manner completely changed; the smiling indiffer- 
ence became constraint. He raised his hat and bowed defer- 
entially to her. 

“I beg your pardon,"" he said, and the very tone of his 
voice had changed; “ but why are you out here, and alone?"" 

“You will not tell?"" she replied, hurriedly. “ Lady Darel 
would be cross. I should not like her to know."" 

“ I will not tell, as you ask me not,"" was the grave reply; 
“but I should very much like to know what brought you 
here, if you will trust me."" 

He was thinking merely of the fair repute of the Dun- 
havens, and that it would not be well for a daughter of the 
house to be seen out and alone at night. She thought his 
question was a sign of great personal interest in herself. 


A THOKN' IK HER HEART. 


n 

I have beeji to the sea/* she replied. Whenever I feel 
very unhappy I go there. Some people have living friends; 
the only friend I have is the sea. 

He laughed. 

To him who counted his friends by the dozen, the idea of 
finding a friend in the sea was absurd, and his laughter grated 
on the ears of the desolate girl. 

“ You do not understand me,” she said, quietly; ‘‘ but you 
will not betray me?^^ 

‘‘ If you had said you met a friend by the sea, it would have 
been more intelligible certainly. As for betraying you, I hope 
I am a gentleman. ” 

Suddenly her words recurred to him. 

“ Why are you friendless?^ ^ he asked. 

To answer that question would be to tell you the story of 
my life,^^ she replied, ‘‘ and that would not interest you.^^ 

Yet even as she uttered the words a half wish formed in her 
mind that he would take some interest; that she would like 
him to bend his handsome head, and tell her he cared enough 
about her to be pleased to hear something of her; but. he, 
knowing that what she said was most perfectly true, walked 
by her side without another word. It was so new and novel 
to her to walk with any one. It was the first time in her life 
that she had ever spoken to a young gentleman/and the hand- 
some face had pleased her; yet it was not a very pleasant 
walk. The sky had grown quite dark; there was not a gleam 
of light on the sand, nothing to disturb the wild, cheerless 
waste. They came in sight of the large, gloomy, desolate 
house at last, and Lady Hilda shuddered as she saw it. 

You do not like Hurst Sea,^^ he said, with a slight shrug 
of his shoulders. 

‘‘ I like it as much as any one ever cares about the grave 
one is buried in,” she answered; and the only thought her 
words gave him was that the earLs young daughter had a 
queer taste for melodrama. 

Another few minutes on the yellow sands, a silent walk 
across the greensward*, and they stood by the little side door 
from which Lady Hilda generally went. Then he raised his 
hat and stood before her with careless grace and negligence. 
Had she been a young queen he could not have treated her 
with greater respect, or more distantly. She looked in his 
handsome face, longing that he would speak to her again—- 
that he would talk to her. Almost inclined to cry out to him 
that she had never seen any voung man like himself — that she 
was more lonely than any ou er creature living; yet, child as 


22 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


she was^ pride stopped the words on her lips- He bowed to 
her. 

“ Let me advise you/^ he said, “ not to do this kind of 
thing again. It is very romantic, but very unsafe. 

She looked at him with gleaming eyes. 

‘‘ Should you know me now,^^ she asked, “ if you met me 
again 

“ Ho,^^ he answered. “ It is dark; I can not see your face. 
How good-night, my little kinswoman. 

“ Stay one moment,^’ she said. “ You are Lord Dunhaven 
now, in my father^ s place, are you not?^^ 

“ Yes,’' he answered, with a slight tinge of impatience. 

“ Hid you love my father?” she continued. 

I have only seen him twice/’ was the quick reply, “ and 
he gave me no cause to love him.” 

She raised her young face with its wonder of many thoughts. 

“ It seems strange,” she said. “ He lies dead and no one 
seems to care for him. You have his title; all that belonged 
to him goes to others. Yet no one seems to give one thought 
of regret. Is it .so always? Hoes no one ever love or sorrow 
for the dead?” 

“ You ask me such strange questions,” he replied. “ As a 
rule, men die as they have lived. If they have won love, or 
deserve it, it follows them in death.” 

A cloud fell over the girlish face. 

“ Then did my father fail to win or deserve it?” she asked; 
but he turned away with an impatient gesture. 

“ I can not answer your question. Good-night, Lady 
Hilda.” 

To himself he said that she was tiresome, and he should 
avoid her carefully during the rest of his visit. 


CHAPTEE V. 

THE earl’s WIL-L. 

Lady Hilda had seen death at last. Ho emotion, no feel- 
ing of respect, either for living or dead, had actuated Lady 
Harel; it was the proper thing for the relatives of a dead man 
to give one last look at him — it was as much part of the cere- 
mony as the mourning and the funeral sermon. Without a 
word of preface or apology, she took the girl into the dark, 
grewsome chamber where the dead man lay : even the terrified 
shriek that came from her white lips did not dismay her. 


A THOEK IlSr HER HEART. 


- 23 

Hnsli/^ she said, slowly; '' silence is the greatest respect 
we can show the dead.^^ 

‘‘ That is not my father/^ cried Lady Hilda. 

The white, cold face was full of horror for her; true, she 
had never seen a smile there, nothing but dark looks and 
frowns. Even a frown would have been more welcome than 
that terrible silence. She shrunk from him with untold 
terror. 

“ Is that death she cried. “ I did not know that it could 
be so awful. 

Then that wliich should have been filial love woke in her 
heart, the tears rained from her eyes, her white lips trembled 
with sobs. 

Poor papa,'’^ she wailed, “ he is dead, and I never remem- 
ber having seen him smile. 

‘‘ You must kiss his face,^'’ said Lady Darel. 

But the girl shrunk back more frightened than ever. 

“ I can not,^^ she cried. “ I have never kissed him living, 
I can not kiss him dead.-’^ 

“ There is an old superstition,'’' said her ladyship, “ that if 
you visit a dead person, and do not touch him, you will dream 
of him for months afterward. " 

She did not perceive that the girl shook with terror. ‘‘ I 
dare not touch him — I dare not dream of him. Oh, Lady 
Darel, let me go. " 

“You are not like a Dunhaven," said Lady Darel con- 
temptuously; “ you are a coward. Touch your father's hand, 
at least." 

Shrinking, terrified, her heart beating with fear, great 
' drops of anguish on her brow, she went near the dead earl and 
touched his hand. The intense, awful chill struck fresh ter- 
rors to her. She had touched ice in the depth of winter, but 
no cold had ever been so awful as this; it seemed to freeze the 
very blood in her veins. She drew back with a shuddering 
sob. 

“ Oh, Lady Darel, let me go," she cried. “ I shall die too, 
if I stay here. " 

As she had done all that etiquette demanded. Lady Darel 
was quite willing— -she was even touched by the girl's awful 
terror. She sent her from the darkened room, where she had 
received a shock that was to influence all her future life. 

Then came the day when the earl, in accordance with his 
own wish, expressed long before he died, was buried in the 
church-yard of Hurst Sea. Few attended the funeral, the 
rector/ the doctor, the young earl, the family solicitor, Mr. 


24 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


Preston; they all returned to the gloomy house when it was 
over. 

‘‘ Of course, reading the will is but a farce/^ said the young 
earl to his lady mother; “ let us get it over quickly; this place 
gives me the horrors. 

“ Lady Hilda must be present,^ ^ said Lady Darel; but her 
son answered with an impatient gesture: 

“ Of what use to send for that child 

“ Child or not, she is her father'’ s heiress, Leonard: you 
forget that. 

“ If the earl has not left me some money to keep up the 
title, it will be of no use to me,^^ said the young Lord Dun- 
haven. “ Preston tells me that for the next ten years the 
whole of the income derived from the estate will not exceed 
five hundred per annum. I had far better be a soldier in a 
marching regiment than Lord D unhaven with five hundred a 
year."" 

Of course he has left you money; he knew you had none. 
I know for certain that he had the free control of his late wife"s 
large fortune. Some one was telling me the other day that it 
was worth at least two hundred thousand pounds now."" 

“ Two hundred thousand pounds!"" cried the young earl, 
“ and he chose to live here in penury and want?"" 

Lady Darel bent her head as she whispered: 

“ It is characteristic of the Dunhavens, that when they cease 
to be spendthrifts, they become misers."" 

He raised his handsome head with a laugh. 

“ Thank Heaven, I am a Darel,"" he said. “Two hundred 
thousand pounds! I could keep up my estate grandly with 
half that. "’ 

They were interrupted by a summons to the library, where 
Mr. Preston awaited them with the late earPs will in his hand. 
He looked at Lady Darel and her son. 

“ It is nec-essary that Lady Hilda Dunhaven be present,"" 
he said, blandly. 

“ Certainly,"" she said. “ If you think it desirable, I will 
ring for her. "" 

It was Stephen Homes who answered the bell, and received 
the message that Lady Hilda was expected in the library at 
once. 

Neither the stately lady, the handsome young earl, nor the 
lawyer ever forgot that scene. From the great bay window 
one looked across a vast expanse of bare, bleak, yellow sand; 
then came the blue sea line; the room itself was large, 
gloomy, and almost empty, the dun, yellow light from the 


A THORK IN' HER HEART. 25 

heavy skies fell on the worm-eaten floor, on the dark, oaken 
furniture; it was weird, ghost-like, and solemn. 

The handsome young earl and his lady mother looked mis- 
erably out of place there. 

There was an interval of waiting. Lady Darel occupied it 
by making plans for herself where she should go, and what 
she should do. Lord Dunhaven had walked to the window, 
where he stood watching the yellow sands, and the sea-gulls. 
The lawyer had dipped his pen in the ink and busied himself 
in making notes. 

They were all startled when the door opened, and Lady 
Hilda entered; they had expected to see a child, for such she 
was in the opinion of each one, but the slender girl, clad in a 
deep mourning dress, had lost something of her childish look. 
Her young face shone out, white and frightened, the sad, 
sweet eyes were fllled with fear, and not even the faintest rose- 
color made its way into those pale lips. 

The lawyer was the first to welcome her. He went up to 
her with a low bow. 

“ Lady Hilda,^’ he said, you look as though you had been 
terribly frightened.'’^ 

She raised her heavy eyes to his. 

“Yes,’"’ she said, simply, “I have been frightened. I — I 
saw my father after he was dead, and can not forget him. 

They were all silent for a few minutes; her words fell like a 
sudden shock on them. Mr. Preston placed a chair for her, 
and then proceeded to unfasten the will. He was a lawyer, 
not given to sentiment; but something like pity stirred within 
him as he looked at the desolate girl — the sad young face, the 
heavy, weary eyes. 

Then he began to read. The late earl had in some respects 
done his duty. He had left handsome legacies to Joan and 
Stephen Homes, his faithful followers; he had left twenty 
pounds to Lady Darel, that she might buy a mourning-ring. 
To his daughter, Hilda Dunhaven — there was no pretense of 
calling her beloved — to her he left the whole of her mother’s 
fortune, on one condition — that within twelve months after his 
death she married his heir, Leonard, Earl Dunhaven. If she 
refused to marry him within this stated time, the money was 
to be divided between different charitable institutions, and she 
was to have one hundred a year for life; if she consented to 
the marriage, and Lord Dunhaven refused his consent, the 
money was to lie by at interest and descend to his children. In 
no case, and under no circumstances, was the money to belong 
to the young earl. 


26 


A THOKN IK HEIi HEART. 


The lawyer read out, in his grave, deep voice, the words 
traced by the dead earFs hand. 

“ Tell my daughter from me that there has been no pretense 
of love between us; I wanted a son — she came in his stead. 

The only way, it appears to me, in which I can set matters i 
right, is by ordaining the marriage of the man who inherits 
my title with my daughter, who' should, in strict justice, in- 
herit her mother^s money. I have no money of my own to 
leave, but by my own efforts I have almost doubled the fort- 
une my wife left to me. By these means the money and the i 
title will go together. Tell my daughter from me that she 1 ^ 
must not refuse; that if she refuses, I shall not rest even in 
my grave — 

A sudden cry interrupted him. The girl had sprung from 
her seat, and stood before them with uplifted hands. 

Not rest in his grave she cried. ‘‘ Oh, my God! what 
shall I do? Would he come back to me all white and cold as 
I saw him?^^ 

Her whole figure trembled with fear; her white face quiv- 
ered. Mr. Preston hastened to her and took the trembling 
hands in his., 

“ My dear young lady,^^ he said, “ pray calm yourself; those 
are but idle words. Every man rests in his grave, because it 
is the will of God that he should do so. You must have been 
terribly frightened.’’^ 

He saw that she was beside herself with fear. 

“lam frightened,-” she said. “ Wherever I go, by day or 
by night, in darkness or light, I see that face before me, white 
and cold. . 

Then Lady Darel rose from her seat, and going to the ter- 
rified girl, sat down by her side. 

“ Hilda, she*said, “ this is either cowardice or love of sen- 
sation. Both are quite unworthy of a Dunhaven; let us have 
no more of it. You have interrupted the reading of the will.” 

Her proud manner quieted the young girl and subdued the 
rising hysteria. The lawyer continued: 

“ I wish my daughter to marry Lord Dunhaven on her sev- 
enteenth birthday; until then I wish her to reside with Lady 
Darel. During the year of her residence Lady Darel is to re- 
cdve the sum of three thousand pounds for the expenses she 
must incur. I leave five hundred pounds for my daughter’s 
trousseau, and repeat again my urgent command that in this 
matter she obeys me. ” 

“ That is all,” said Mr. Preston, as he folded up the 


A THORK IN HER HEART. 27 

papers, while the three most concerned looked bewildered at 
each other. 

The most charitable thing we can say is, that the late earl 
was mad,^^ said Lord Dunhaven. 

‘‘ There is too much method for madness,^ ^ said the lawyer; 
while Lady Darel rose, stately and calm. 

‘‘ Come with me. Lady Hilda, she said; “ you have heard 
more than enough. 

She led the young girl from the room, leaving the earl and 
the lawyer to look at each other. 


CHAPTER VI. 

A GENEROUS HEIRESS. 

It is the most unheard of piece of nonsense, mother, that 
ever was perpetrated — the man must have been mad. Why 
should I marry his daughter — what is she to me? He ought 
to have been ashamed of himself to make such a will. 

Lady Darel looked anxiously into her son^s face. 

“ It was not right,^^ said her ladyship, solemnly; ‘‘ but as 
it is done, my dearest Leonard, the best thing is to try to 
make the best of it. 

“ If the best of it means marrying that odious-looking 
school-girl, I decline altogether — I refuse absolutely to do it.''^ 

“ It is a sad piece of business altogether,^^ said my lady. 

“ He must have known that I could not keep up the title 
on a paltry five hundred per annum; it was his duty to have 
left me half, at least, of that fortune without any condition 
whatever. As to thinking I shall spoil my life by marrying 
the girl, for whom I have neither admiration nor liking, it is a 
great mistake. I shall do nothing of the kind. I wish the 
earldom and everything connected with it were at the bottom 
of the sea. This is a fine situation — a coronet and nothing to 
uphold it.^^ 

“ Two hundred thousand pounds, said Lady Darel, mus- 
ingly. “ It is a large sum — you could live well on that.^^ 

‘‘ I could, but I do not intend to; it is altogether absurd, 
mother. You see that she does not gain even by my refusal 
to carry out what I believe to be an unjust command. In no 
case except by her marriage with me does she get the money. 

“ I would not decide anything in a great hurry, Leonard, 
said Lady Darel. “ Wait and see what the year brings forth. 

“ What does the girl herself. Lady Hilda, say about it?^^ he 
asked, half impatiently. 


I 


28 


A THORK IK HER HEART. 


“ She says nothing; the child seems bewildered. Take my 
advice, Leonard, say nothing at present; wait and see what 
time does for you. 

He looked wretchedly unhappy, this young earl whose in- 
heritance was but a burden to him. 

“ I tell you what, mother, he said, after a short pause, I 
think I shall give it all up and go to Australia; I could carve 
out a fortune for myself there. 

She looked up with a sudden sensation of alarm. 

“ You must not think of such a thing, Leonard,^^ she cried. 

“ I shall never stay here to be laughed- at as the bankrupt 
earl,'’^ he said. “ A peer who has not the income of a trades- 
man. Every one would laugh at me if I remained here. 

“ My dearest boy, do not despond; you may be all right yet. 
It is very vexatious, I admit; but there are many heiresses in 
England who will be pleased to change their gold for your 
title."’ 

He threw back his haughty head in proud disdain. 

“ I shall never marry any woman for her money. I am not 
a buyer and seller. If I marry, it will be because I love; I 
should disdain anything else. I never can and never shall love 
this child. She has been more cruelly neglected than any girl 
I ever saw. I will die as I have lived— a gentleman."" 

Lady Darel rose from her seat with a deep sigh. 

“ Say no more about it, Leonard. It is very disappointing 
for both of us. I have looked forward with such an intensity 
of pleasure to seeing you Earl of Dunhaven; now all my 
pleasure is spoiled. I never dreamed but that he would leave 
you money enough to keep up the title."" 

“ I shall make an admirable settler in the Australian back- 
woods,"" he said. There is no peerage in England for me."" 

“ I pity myself,” said Lady Darel. “ She is to live with 
me for a year. How I appeal to you, Leonard, how shall I 
survive it? You know how fastidious I am; what shall I do 
with an untrained school-girl in the house? Imagine my shame 
at introducing such a Lady Hilda to those who know what a 
Dunhaven should be. Even the three thousand I am to re- 
ceive for expenses, will not comfort me."" 

He went away wishing in his heart that he had been born a 
yeoman, a son of the soil, anything rather than the heir of a 
ruined peerage. He walked impatiently out of the ball-room,' 
across the yellow sands, then stood still, touched in spite of 
himself by the picture he saw there. 

The tide was full in, and down on the beach sat the solitary 
young girl whose future had been so cruelly played with. 


I . ^ 

A THORN, IN HER HEART. 29 

The lonely figure stood out in solitary relief against the blue 
sky. The solitude was unbroken, even the sea-gulls had ceased 
their play. There was something unutterably pathetic in the 
silent figure, the drooping head, the despondent attitude, the 
face with its sad expression. 

He vms not a bad man by nature, and the lonely picture 
touched him. 

She had heard his footsteps, aild turning, she saw him. 

Her face changed at once, it flushed crimson, then bright- 
ened as she came toward him. Impulsively she held out her 
hands to him. 

I am so glad to see you,^^ she cried. I wanted to tell 
you how sorry I am; it is unfair to me, but it is doubly unfair 
to you.^^ 

The outstretched hands and sympathetic voice took him by 
storm. Lady Hilda had that one great gift for which no woman 
can be too grateful, she had a sweet, soft, sympathetic voice; 
even Lord I) unhaven, who thought her a plain, tiresome 
child was struck by. it. 

She looked eagerly at him. 

When my father was living,'^ she said, days and weeks 
passed without my seeing him. I thought he had forgotten 
me, yet something tells me he meant this for my happiness. 
Tell me, you who know the world so much better than I do, 
tell me, was there ever such a will made before?^^ 

‘‘I have never heard of one,” he replied. “It is unjust 
and hard upon us both. The money ought to have been di- 
vided between us — half for your sole use and benefit, half to 
keep up the ancient house of Hunhaven. 

“ I wish that I had never been born,^^ she said, quietly; 
“ then you must have had it all.^^ 

“ Do not say that. Lady Hilda,^^ he cried, hastily. 

The grave calm of her young face was not broken — she 
looked up at him again. 

“ Would it be of any use if I could die?^^ she said, gently. 

He started. 

“ Ho, not that I know — I am not sure, but one thing is 
quite clear to me -you must not die. Indeed, I laugh at my 
own words; you can not die by wishing for death. 

“ I should be quite willing,” she answered, slowly, “ if you 
might have the money and be happy.” 

“ You are a very generous girl,” he said, hastily, and then 
wondered to see her face flush and her lips tremble. 

“ Generous,” she said. “ Do you really think that I am 
generous? You will wonder if I tell you something.” 


30 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


“ Tell me what you will,^’ he said^ wondering at her emo- 
tion. 

‘‘ That is the first time in my life that any one has ever 
praised me/' she said. “ Would you believe that — could you 
think that any girl could grow up without love or praise? One 
can never easily fancy a flower growing without warmth or 
light. You have been loved and praised, have you not?" 

The sad, sweet eyes looked so confidently to him for an an- 
swer that he could not help giving one. 

“ Yes, I have had plenty of both in my life." 

‘‘And I — none," she replied; “none! .Only think what 
that means. If I do wrong, no one hesitates in blaming me; 
when I do right, there is no sweet word of praise for me — 
none; so you may imagine how I value the first I have heard, 
and you are the one to utter it. I shall always be grateful to 
you. I shall always remember that you called me generous." 

He smiled at the words as he would have smiled at the sim- 
ple spoken words of a child ; for half a moment the wish rose 
to his heart that he could have been kind to the child; but for 
this absurd will-making, a barrier between them, he might 
have been her friend, have helped her in a hundred ways; now 
if he was kind to her, she would think directly that he wanted 
to marry her. His voice, face> and manner all changed as 
this thought came over him. He drew back, but the girl did 
not understand his altered manner. 

“ I will proveto you," she said, “ that lean be generous; I 
shall never forget that you have used that word to me. My 
life is all changed, and greater changes may come, but I shall 
be constant to that one idea, gratitude to you. You have 
praised me; for the first time in my life my heart has been 
brightened and warmed by a kind word. " 

She had loosened her hold of his hand — she bent down now 
and kissed it. It was the natural expression of the emotion of 
a young and enthusiastic girl; it had no more meaning; yet it 
frightened him — he drew back quickly. 

“ I — I am glad that you- are pleased," he said. 

Then with a few indifferent words he left her. The girl 
watched him across the sands, the shadow of his tall figure fell 
over the long rippling limes — her eyes filled with tears as she 
gazed at him. 

“ You have spoken kindly to me," she said, “ your words 
are the first kind ones that ever made music for me, and I will 
never forget you. I can not tell how life may go on for us 
both — whether we shall marry or not; but I will prove to you 
that I can be generous" 


A THOKK IK HElt HEAKT. 


31 


She went back home light of heart, happier than she had 
ever been before, although the shadow of death lay over the 
house, and she was alone in the world. She found the whole 
house in a state of disorder and excitement; the funeral was 
over, the will was read, and Lady Darel did not see the need 
of remaining there any longer. She sent for Lady Hilda, and 
in a few brief words informed her of her intention. 

“ You have nothing,^ ^ she said, haughtily, “ that requires 
packing — nothing that you can possibly take to my house. It 
will make no difference to you, I suppose, if we go to-night?^^ 

‘‘ Is Lord Dunhaven going?^^ the girl asked, and the ques- 
tion was so sudden that proud Lady Darel looked up in wonder. 

“ My son will go,^^ she said, “ but not with us.^^ 

Lady Hilda turned listlessly away. 

‘‘ It is no matter to me,^^ she replied, “ when or where we 
go/' 

“ Well,^^ said her ladyship, if we have to live together for 
a whole year, my dear, as seems highly probable, I hope you 
will learn to take a little more interest in matters. 

“ I would interest myself in anything. Lady Darel, if you 
would only like me,^^ said the girl, wistfully. “ I would do 
little love.-’^ 

jr Hilda,'’ ^ said the young earDs mother, “ let 
one thing — in all the language, there is no 
word so absurd as that one word — love. Pray never use it in 
speaking to me again. " 


anything to win a 
“ My dear Lad 
me assure vou of 


CHAPTER VIL 

A WOMAK OF TfiE WOKLD. 

The picture of the gloomy house, the bare, ribbed sand, the 
dull, gray sea, went with Lady Hilda from the old life to the 
new; went with her to the end of her days. She stood on the 
morning of her departure from Hurst Sea, bidding farewell to 
the sea, her only living friend. What kind of life lay before 
her she knew not, whether it should be gay or grave, happy 
or miserable; whether that which she longed for, ‘‘ love,"^ 
should be given to her or not. She was on the threshold of 
another world, and she stood with tears in her eyes, to take 
her farewell of her only living friend, the restless sea. 

Unlike other girls, she had no memories; she had no girl 
friends whose faces she could kiss on parting; she had no 
dreams of faces that had looked into hers with love; she did 
not remember anyplace on earth but this, of the gray sea, the 


32 


A m hek heart. 


ribbed sand, and the gloomy house. There was strong pain in 
her heart, not regret, but a keen sense of desolation and loneli- 
ness; yet, despite all, there was a vague sense of pleasure — a 
new life was opening, and in it she might find that for which 
her heart had always craved — love. 

She wondered what Lady DareFs home would be like; how 
unfit she was to take a place in it; but she would try her best, 
she would train and educate herself. 

Farewell to the sea and the sand, the long lonely hours; a 
thousand welcomes to the newer and the brighter life. 

Lady Darel had been somewhat exercised in her mind as to 
where she should take the young girl so completely thrown on 
her hands. Her own pretty little estate of Oairnset was in the 
country, and a year in the country would be a year wasted; 
better to take a house in town where Lady Hilda could have 
the advantage of the best masters. What could happen at 
the yearns end. Lady Darel could not in the least foresee; it 
was just possible that her son the young earl might go to the 
backwoods, the peerage become extinct, Lady Hilda be re- 
duced to living on a small income, and all the principal char- 
ities in England considerably benefited; or there might be a 
grand wedding and everything go on happily afterward — 
which would it be? 

The jouriK^ from Hurst Sea to London was Lady Hilda’s 
first experience in life. This was the world then — flashing, 
bright, gay, full of music and perfume, full of color and 
warmth, full of laughter and song — this was the world she 
had dreamed in her gray silent home. 

The sun was shining, and it was a bright day in June; the 
train whirled past the pretty, picturesque towns, the quaint 
homesteads, the green hills, the gray churches, the golden 
corn-fields, the gardens where every sweet flower bloomed — 
past the clover meadows, and the fields where the barley ri- 
pened under the sun, past the green woods and the singing 
brooks — a lovely sunlit laughing world, flushed with rich color 
and warmth; it was something like her dreams. She turned 
her brightened face to the stately lady who saw no beauty 
save in gilded saloons. 

‘‘ How lovely the world is,” she said; “it seems to me a 
maze of color, after seeing nothing but water and sand.” 

“The world is very well,” said my Lady Darel; “but 
there is one thing you must learn before you go into society; 
that is, not to gush over everything that pleases you.” 

The light died from the girl’s face, as it generally did when 
Lady Darel spoke to her. 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


33 


What do you mean by gushing? she asked, gravely. 

“ That affected way people have of going into raptures 
about everything they see and hear. If anything pleases you 
and you enjoy it there is no need to call the attention of others 
toit.^" 

The girl turned away to hide the tears that would come into 
her eyes. 

Lady Darel did not mean to be unkind to her, but her very 
presence jarred on the most fastidious lady; she had only as- 
sociated with the most refined of people. This untrained, 
unformed girl was a trial to her; she had little consideration 
and less thought for her. If Lady Hilda had been the declared 
heiress of the earl, it would have been different, she would have 
been proud of her; then her want of education and training 
would have been overlooked, or considered as a charming ec- 
centricity; for Lady Darel was essentially a worldly woman — 
a girl’s questions, her ignorance, her naivety, all annoyed her; 
she could neither understand nor excuse the late earl’s neglect 
of his only child. She was ashamed of the fact, and did not 
care that it should be brought under her notice. 

The crowds of people delighted and amazed Lady Hilda; 
there they were at every railway station, fresh, amused, 
smiling and busy. She had hardly dreamed that there were 
so many people in the world. She felt her loneliness even 
more keenly when she saw the thought and attention that hus- 
bands gave to their wives, brothers to their sisters. Would the 
time ever come that “ some one ” would think for her and 
take care of her in that same loving fashion? 

Then they reached London, and it was well for Lady DareTs 
peace of mind that surprise and astonishment had made the 
young girl speechless. The vast size of the great city, the 
crowds of people, the endless line of lights, all bewildered her 
and struck her dumb. Lady Darel began to congratulate her- 
self on having taught her charge something of good manners 
at last. She had seen London, yet had no questions to ask. 

Another week and Lady Hilda began to grow accustomed to 
her new life. Lady Darel would have everything en regie for 
her. 

She purchased a very pretty and extensive wardrobe for her; 
she hired a fashionable lady’s-maid, thinking little and caring 
less for the torture this must inflict on her protegee; she pur- 
chased a horse and insisted that she should take riding lessons. 

She worked as few girls work. In after life she called this 
her transition year. She passed from a lonely, miserable 
childhood into a gay and brilliant girlhood. She was industij 

3 


34 


A THORK IK HER HEART. 


itself; she rose early and worked until it was late. She studied 
music and drawing, she took lessons in dancing. Even Lady 
Darel, so difficult to please, was compelled to praise her, and 
say that she was doing well. 

Lady Darel was perfectly worldly wise; she never forgot 
what the end of the stipulated year might bring forth. She 
did not introduce Lady Hilda either to court or to society. It 
was useless, she thought; if the marriage did not take place. 
Lady Hilda would have no place in the world; if it did, the 
best and easiest plan would be to introduce her to the great 
world on the occasion of her marriage as the Countess of Dun- 
haven. 

She did her best — she educated the girl in every possible 
way; she took her to the opera, to the best concerts and plays; 
she took her to all the most famous picture-galleries; she 
talked to her incessantly; and the result was that in one year 
she had made more progress than some girls do in five. 

She had not gained much in appearance when her seven- 
teenth year drew to its close. She was still tall, thin, un- 
formed, with a girl’s face. To those that studied her there 
was in that face the promise of great beauty in the years to 
come. Looking at it, one longed to see the red lips parted 
with a smile, and the eyes shine with light. One longed to 
see a girl’s happiness on a girl’s face. 

One by one the months passed, and the great hope of her life 
had not come to her — no one loved her. She was urged al- 
ways by Lady Darel to remain in the drawing-room when vis- 
itors came, so she made many friends, but they were simply 
acquaintances of the hour. She liked some of them, and dis- 
liked others; but no one had said yet, ‘‘ I love you, Hilda.” 
Yet day by day, this longing for love increased. Detween her- 
self and Lady Darel there was an armed peace — as for ex- 
pecting love from that proud and stately lady, she never vent- 
ured to think of it. The only person she had seen yet whom 
she felt inclined to love was the man whom her father’s will 
compelled her to marry. She had never seen him since they 
parted on the sands at Hurst Sea. He had written to Lady 
Darel, telling her that he had gone to join some friends on a 
cruise to Norway, that he did not expect to return until the 
year was ended, then he should decide whether he would go to 
Australia or remain in England. Of one thing he was quite 
sure — he would never marry the Lady Hilda D unhaven. 

Lady Darel said nothing of this letter to her young charge, 
who wondered day by day why she did not see the earl. She 


A THOEF IK HER HEART. 35 

asked the question at last, and Lady Darel was not sorry that 
she did so. 

“ Where is Lord Dunhaven?^^ she said. “ Why does he not 
come to see you?^^ 

“ My son has gone with some friends to Norway/^ was the 
brief reply; and even that set her heart quite at rest 

She knew nothing of a lover^s love, this neglected girl; 
she wove no romance about the handsome earl; she did not 
fancy herself in love with him; but he had been kind. to her, 
and she longed to see him again. He had made the only 
gleam of brightness in her life, and she longed for more. 

She was simple and innocent as a child. She never forgot 
that she was to marry him, but of married life she knew noth- 
ing. Talk to her of love, she understood; she was keenly 
alive, keenly sensitive; talk to her of marriage, her ideas were 
all vague and unformed. Lady Darel was true to her trust, 
as in her proud way she would be true to anything. She never 
tried to influence the girl; she never mentioned the marriage 
to her; in her own mind she had not decided whether she had 
wished for it or not. 

True, the money would be most useful to her son, in fact, 
without it he could not remain in England; yet her pride re- 
belled against this unjust coercion. She said to herself that 
this neglected child was no fitting wife for her handsome, gift- 
ed, noble son. So she left the matter; Leonard would decide 
it for himself. The only time she ever alluded to it was when 
Lady Hilda^s seventeenth birthday drew near, the second of 
June. She went to the young giiTs room one morning. 

“ Hilda, when are you seven teen 

“ On^the second of June, Lady Darel, was the answer. 

“ My son comes home on the 20th of May; then, I suppose, 
we shall have this business settled. Have you thought of it, 
Hilda?^" 

The fair, girlish face drooped, while hot blushes came over it. 

“ I have thought of it, but it seems to me like a dark dream 
from which I dread waking,^ ^ she replied, and Lady Darel 
said no more; “ dark dreams were not in her line. 


CHAPTER VHI. 

HILDA FAVORS MARRIAGE. 

Blackthork House was the name of a very beautiful man- 
sion in London that Lady Darel had taken for the year; it was 
looking its brightest and best now; out on the pretty veranda 


36 


A THOEIT IN HER HEART. 


( 


the mignonette, the scarlet verbena, the purple heliotropes 
stood in great rich clusters. From the large open windows 
one caught sight of the trees in the park, the gleam of the 
golden laburnum, the pink and white of the hawthorn, the 
rich rippling foliage of the tall green trees. People had a 
fashion of telling Lady Darel how they envied her the beauti- 
ful views from the windows. The drawing-room, a long, 
lofty, exquisite room, opened on to the veranda, where the 
sweet, bright flowers bloombd; it was an exquisite room, 
bright^ light, cheerful, and beautifully arranged. There on 
this eventful twentieth of May, stood Lady Hilda Duuhaven, 
awaiting the presence of the man she had been enjoined to 
marry. She had not yet laid aside her mourning, and her dress 
of black crape falls in sweeping folds to the ground. 

Tall, slender, graceful, with the promise of a magnificent 
womanhood, she stands awaiting the man who holds her life in 
his hands, an attractive figure, yet by no means beautiful as 
yet. The fair, girlish face almost loses its promise of beauty 
in its sadness; the dark eyes are sweet and sad as when they 
looked out on the restless sea a year ago; her white hands are 
clasped tightly, and the beautiful lips quiver as she listens in- 
tently to each sound. It is only now that she has begun to 
realize what this will means. She has enjoyed her life of lux- 
ury and ease, she loves the beauty of life; she likes large 
houses, beautiful rooms, good pictures, fine statues, elegant 
stables; she likes well-trained servants, fiery horses, easy car- 
riages, and all the other hundred and one objects of luxury 
that fall to the share of the rich; she was just beginning to 
understand that if this marriage did not take place, she must 
lose all, and go back to what was comparative poverty. 

That was terrible to her, but more terrible stilb^was the 
idea that she should not be loved. She did not quite under- 
stand as yet the rules that governed this new and strange 
world, but it seemed to her there was no love without mar- 
riage, no marriage without money. 

But he who was coming would solve this mystery for her. 
How would he come? — would he hold out his arms to her and 
say, “ You, who are to be my wife, come and love me Her 
heart beat at the thought. Or would he say, “ We are as 
strangers, you and Which would it be? A large white 
rose lay on the table near her; she took it in her hands and 
counted the leaves, saying to each one, “ He loves me,^^ or 
“He loves me not."” The end was always the same — “He 
loves me not, of course,"' she said to herself. “ Even the very 
leaves of the rose have more sense than I have; they say he 


37 


A THORK IN' HER HEART. 

does not love me. How can he? he does not know me; I do 
not think that he has ever looked at my face; but he has been 
kind to me, and for that I could love him.^^ 

She would not have given many more thoughts to him had 
she known the conversation that passed between him and his 
lady mother. They had taken luncheon together, so as to have 
an opportunity of talking. He was quite unwilling at first to 
broach the subject; he talked about his travels, about the 
London season, he praised the St. Julien, he criticised Lady 
Darehs looks, and when he could say no more, he threw him- 
self back in the chair. 

“ Now, mother, he said, “about this matter which has 
brought me to England — this absurd will.-’^ 

Lady Darel looked at him with shadowed eyes. 

“ I have never dared to think of it, Leonard, she said. 

“ And I have never cared to think of it,^^ he replied, “ but 
the time has come when the question must be decided. I want 
the money; if I had such a fortune as that, I would make my- 
self one of the first men in England. I can do nothing with- 
out money, yet I can not make up my mind to mariy that 
child— my life would be a burden to me. I should like my 
wife to be a refined, accomplished, spirituelle woman — this 
child will never be that.^^ 

“ I have done my best with her; she is improved, still she is 
far from being what I should like to see her. She has a good 
disposition, and a refined mind.'’^ 

The young earl was silent for a few minutes, then he said: 

“ It is an unpleasant thing to have to do; not only must I 
tell the child that I am not willing to marry her, but I must 
deprive her of her money at the same time. It is a hateful task. 

“ Then you- have made up your mind,^^ said her lad3^ship, 
slowly. 

“ Yes. I can not do it; I will not be forced into a marriage 
I dislike by any man either living or dead. Mother, I wish 
you would tell her for me. I feel as though I were robbing 
her.^^ 

Lady Darel seldom refused her son anything he asked, but 
she would not grant him this favor. 

“You must doit yourself, Leonard, she said, “I would 
rather not interfere. 

He muttered hard words between his teeth as he rose from 
his seat. Never had man a more ungracious task. 

“ Lady Hilda is in the drawing-room,^^ said his mother, and 
without another word he went to join her. 

She looked up as he entered, with a little, low ciy, and the 


38 


A THOEK m HEE HEAKT. 


first sight of her disarmed his impatience. The tall, slender 
figure, with its promise of future beauty; the fair, sad girlish 
face, the sweet sad eyes; and how wondrously the face bright- 
ened at the sight of him. 

He had meant to speak but few words, and those of the cold- 
est, but he was a man of tender heart; he held out his hand to 
her in greeting; he smiled in her upraised face; he almost for- 
got that he intended to be cold; and all because of the sudden 
light that had come into her face when she saw him. 

As for her, in the sunlight of his smile her whole nature 
seemed to find warmth and freedom, as a ^now wreath melts 
under the glance of the sun. 

‘‘ I am so glad to see you,^^ she said, and her face carried 
out her words. ‘‘ How long you have been away. Lord Dun- 
haven! I am so pleased to welcome you home.^^ 

“ I thank you for your welcome/’ he said. 

I am pleased to see you,” she continued. “ You have 
lived in my mind as the only creature who ever spoke with real 
kindness to me. I have met many others since then, but none 
like you.” 

“ I ought to feel fiattered,” he said with a little laugh that 
was not altogether unembarrassed. “ You' are very good to 
have given me such a high place in your memory.” 

Then came a few moments of silence; his task was more 
ungracious still; how was he to tell this child, who seemed so 
rejoiced to see him, that he preferred beggary for himself and 
for her rather than marry her. She seemed to feel quite at 
home with him, and talked to him with a freedom that aston- 
ished him. 

“ I have read all about Norway, while you have been 
there,” she said; ‘‘ I know every fjord, all about the rivers and 
mountains.” 

‘‘ What made you take an interest in Norway?” he asked ‘ 
suddenly 

“ Because you were there,” she answered; “why should I 
care for it otherwise? You called me generous, you shall find 
me grateful.” 

. He was touched by her words. 

“ My dear child,” he said, “ I have done nothing that you 
need be grateful for. ” 

She laughed, and it was wonderful how that laugh changed 
her whole face; it was quite a novelty to hear that sound from 
her lips. 

“You call me child,” she said; “ do you know that I ^hall 
be seventeen in June?” 


A THORK IK HER HEART. 


39 


Then remembering all that implied, the young face flushed 
crimson. 

“ It is that very fact which brings me here/^ he replied. 
“ You are seventeen, and you know how much there is to be 
done before the year closes. 

She looked up at him half shyly, half sweetly. 

“ This is the first day of your return, do not let us talk 
about it. Tell me something of your travels; of what you 
have seen and done. 

“ I came purposely to talk over this matter with you. Lady 
Hilda,^^ he said half hesitatingly. 

“ Yes, I know you did, but you can spare one evening 
surely to tell me about your travels. It may be, you know, 
that when we have talked matters over we shall never be quite 
such good friends again. 

He looked at her curiously, this child who was yet so grave 
and thoughtful, and looking at her, he was struck with the 
promise of beauty in her face; the curves of the lips were ex- 
ceedingly beautiful; another two years, and the shy, timid girl 
would be a lovely woman. He felt in that moment as though 
he would have liked her but for that absurd will. 

Was he to yield to her pretty fancy and tell her all about 
Norway, or must he tell her the terrible truth, that she would 
have to lose all the' money. 

She had placed a chair near the open window for him — the 
rare, sweet perfume of the heliotrope came in like a greeting; 
the warm western wind brought messages from every flower 
that bloomed. 

“ Am I to sit here. Lady Hilda, and tell you about Norway? 
Ah, me, I ought to talk to you about something far less 
pleasant. 

“ Less pleasant, she repeated, gravely. 

. “ Yes, far less pleasant. I think we had better discuss the 
question, had we notr^^ 

“ Will it require so much discussion?” she said. “ I think 
a few words will settle it.^’ 

He looked afc her keenly. 

“ You are the lady,” he said, “ you ought to be allowed 
the first choice and the first speech in the matter. That did 
not occur to me before, but I see it now. Tell me, if you had 
to decide this question yourself, how should you decide it?” 

Again the young face was covered with hot blushes, and 
turned shyly from him. 

‘‘ I should decide it so that you should have the money,” 
she said gently, and there was a short silence. 


40 


A THOKN IN HER HEART. 


“ Then you would have the marriage take place he said. 

She thought for a few moments, then she said: 

“ If we were married as the will said, should I be always 
with you?’^ 

“ I suppose so/^ was the indifferent reply. 

The light that came on her face was beautiful even in his 
eyes. 

‘‘ Then if I may be always with you, I should choose that 
the marriage take place, and you have all the money, she 
answered shyly, and without raising her eyes to him. 


CHAPTER IX. 

A STRANGE BETROTHAL. 

This was quite a new view of the subject to Leonard, Earl 
of Dunhaven. Hitherto he had looked solely from his own 
point of view at the marriage; as a nonsensical whim on the 
part of an imbecile old man, an unbearable tie, as a farce not 
to be tolerable; as a something which would take from him his 
liberty and spoil his life. 

He had not thought much of Lady Hilda’s side of the ques- 
tion; naturally enough it was not likely that she would be 
pleased to lose her money, but that she would not like losing 
him, had not occurred to him. 

It was a new idea that she should care about him; it filled 
him with a half-pitying sense of protection; it was strange that 
the lonely, unformed, badly trained girl should care about 
him. 

It is the fashion to talk of the vanity of women. Men give 
themselves great airs of superiority on this point, but the van- 
ity of a woman is as nothing compared to the vanity of a man. 

Lord Dunhaven was not more vain than the rest of his sex; 
he had gone into the drawing-room, seeking that interview 
purposely to tell Lady Hilda that there could be no marriage. 
She was but a badly trained child, for whom he had no great 
liking, but when she showed that she cared about him, that 
she liked to l^e with him, his vanity was touched, and he list- 
ened with more kindness in his heart than he had ever felt 
before. 

The scene was not dramatic, as some love scenes are; there 
was the beautiful room, the mellow golden sunlight; the hand- 
some face of the young man, witRits puzzled wondering ex- 
pression, was most worthy of note; the face of the girl was 


A THOEK IIT HER HEART. 


41 


fair, sweet and sad ; yet it was the face of a child timidly seek- 
ing for the kindness she had never known. 

A spirit of bravery seemed to have come to her. She 
looked at him with a half-tender smile playing around her 
lips. 

‘‘Will you tell me/^ she asked, “something about your 
affairs? I do not understand. Is it true that without this 
money you will be poor, unable to live at Havendale Park?^^ 

“ I shall be so poor/^ he replied, gloomily, “ that instead of 
remaining in England I must go to America, Australia, any- 
where, where I can best hide my English fortunes.^^ 

“ That would be very sad,^^ said the gentle voice. “ I wish 
it had all been otherwise. If you had the money and re- 
mained in England — what then?^^ 

His face brightened. 

“Ah, then everything would be changed,^’ he said. “I 
should take my proper position as an English peer, and I 
could fill my life with good and useful work. 

“ Why not keep the money then,^^ she asked, half shyly. 

He did not quite understand her. 

“ How can I keep it? I can not sacrifice your life and my 
own for sake of mere money. 

Her sad young face glowed with a beautiful light; there came 
to the dark eyes strange fire which dying left a lovely radiance 
there; the sweet lips quivered, and the words came slowly; yet 
there was no hesitation, no shame; there was so little thought 
of herself in what she had- to say, and so much of him. 

“ It would not be a sacrifice to me,” she said; “ I am quite 
pleased, nay, I wish that you should have all the money, and 
if you can not have it without marrying me, why, marry me. 
Indeed, I should be no trouble to you, and I would try to 
please, you. 

The words died away, and a little tremulous smile died with 
them. He was touched more by the wistful face, than by the 
words; if the matter had been less serious, it would have 
amused him; he glanced at the golden, drooping head. 

“You are very good to think so kindly of me,” he said, 
“ but you are a child. Lady Hilda, I can not take advantage 
of a child ^s kindness, a child^s ignorance. A man who mar- 
ries wants a wife who can be a companion to him.^^ 

“ I would try,^^ she said gently. “ I am not very clever, 
but I understand much more than I did. I would try to be a 
companion to you.^^ 

He laughed a little low laugh. Poor child, she W^S very 


42 


A THORI^ IN HER HEART. 


She did not notice the interruption, nor see the expression 
of amusement on his face; all her heart was on her lips — all 
her earnest, sensitive, loving soul was in her words. 

“ I would try to improve myself, she continued earnestly. 
“ I have learned a great deal during this year. I would study 
and read, so that I could talk to you. 

Her lips trembled. She had expected him to say some- 
thing kind to her, to take her hands in his. The words died 
on her lips, and then she took courage again; but the dark 
eyes she raised to his face were wet with tears. 

“ I should not like you to leave England,^^ she said, “ or 
to be unhappy, or poor. I know that I am far behind other 
girls, but the best thing would be I am sure, for — for the mar- 
riage to take place. 

She had no thought of herself, as she spoke, no thought of 
her own love. She thought only of him, and of the difference 
that the money would make to him. She went on hurriedly: 

“ I can not bear that you should suffer — that you should be 
disappointed. I would give you all the money if I could; if 
you can not have it without taking me with it, you had better 
take me, and I will give you as little trouble, as I can.^^ 

Her hand fell gently with a shy, timid touch on his; her 
words were innocent, pure and unselfish as the words of a 
child ; there was no other meaning for him, but consideration 
for him. 

He had gone there resolved on breaking by one blow all 
bonds, and telling her honestly there could be no marriage, 
and now her sad young face, her tender sorrowful eyes, her 
simple childlike ways, so full of thought for himself, touched 
him so deeply that he did not know what to say. He was 
taken by storm; it was not that his ideas were changed, or 
that his opinion of the marriage had changed in the least, but 
the girl had bewildered him. He looked at the upraised face, 
at the calm, clear light in the dark eyes. 

‘‘You prefer the marriage taking place to losing the 
money, he said. 

She did not like that form of words. 

“ I prefer that you should keep your place in the world, 
that you should fill your life with good and useful work; that 
you should keep up the traditions of the grand old name. I 
think more of these things than I do of my marriage. 

She was but an untrained school-girl, yet a woman^s pure 
soul shone in her face, a woman^s pure love lay in her dark 
eyes, a child ^s purity and innocence seemed to infold her, and 
make her for a short time, sacred in his sight. 


A THORK Iiq- HER HEART. 


43 


“ Then you wish for the marriage/^ he said, briefly, you 
vote in its favor. 

“ Yes,^^ was the quiet reply, after a few moments’ thought. 

‘‘ Then let it be so,” he said. “You have a right to decide 
the question, a right that neither I nor any one else can take 
from you.” 

There was no demonstration; he could not even say in his 
heart that he was pleased ; he could not say that he was even 
content, but he was touched by her faithful thought of him. 

“We will consider the matter settled. Lady Hilda,” he 
said. “You remember what, the other strange terms of that 
will were, the marriage was to take place on or before your 
seventeenth birthday. That will soon be at hand. 

Ho maiden blushes broke the calm of the girlish face; there 
was no hesitation in her manner. 

“It will indeed soon be here,” she said, “and from that 
day, the money will be all yours, will it not?’^ 

Always him, never herself. She seemed to ignore herself 
entirely. 

“ I suppose so,” he answered, with a little impatient shrug 
of the shoulders. 

He held himself a man of honor and a gentleman; yet in 
that moment, he felt like a thief who had robbed a child. She 
bent her golden head until it drooped over his hands; then she 
said: 

“You have made me very happy. ” With sweet, tender grav- 
ity, she laid her warm lips on his hands. “lam very happy,” 
she said, “ that I am to be always with the one who was the 
first to be kind to me.” 

Then for the first time, a vague new beautiful feeling awoke 
in her heart; a vague sensation that seemed to thrill her whole 
being; a sensation that made her avert her head shyly, and 
drop his hand as though it had burned her. Perhaps she 
thought that he would say some little kind word in return; but 
he did not. He was vexed with himself; he had gone there 
expressly to break the marriage, and a few childish words had 
altered his intention and bound him for life. He longed to 
retract what he had said, there and then; but something in the 
expression of that childish Lace restrained him. He could not 
trust her with the truth. Bhe seemed to guess by instinct that 
he was not quite at ease, but she never dreamed that his dis- 
comfiture was caused by herself. She tried to comfort him. 

“ I will do my best always,” she said, “ not to give you 
any trouble. 

The very simplicity of the words made him smile. 


44 


A THOKN IK HER HEART. 


“ What trouble could you give me. Lady Hilda?^^ he asked. 

“ I do not know, but Miss Darwin and Joan always said 
that I gave a great deal of trouble. 

He rose impatiently from his chair, vexed to the very soul 
that he had allowed himself to yield; yet quite unable to with- 
draw his words. 

“ I will tell Lady Darel what has been decided, he said, 
“ and the business can be attended to at once.^' 

He was leaving the room with a low bow, when she called 
him by name. 

Lord D unhaven, she said, “ speak to me. Say some- 
thing kind to me by which I will remember this day, and look 
back to it with pleasure. 

If she had asked him to fly, he could not have looked more 
astonished. He stood quite still, and looked at her. She 
smiled. 

‘‘ I value your kind words, she said, ‘‘ as some people 
value pearls and diamonds. 

“ I — I really do not know what to say,^^ he stammered. 

Her face fell. 

“ Never mind,^^ she said, but he roused himself^ all his 
chivalry, his gallant nature, came to his aid; this young girl 
with a child’s face, had just given him all she had; her fort- 
une, herself; surely he might find a word at least for her. 

So he bent over and touched her hand. 

“ I thank you,” he said, ‘‘for all your kind thoughts of 
me. ” 

It was not much, but it was enough for her. She thought 
to herself, that while the sun shone, and life lasted, she could 
never be unhappy again; while he went away, saying hard 
words to himself, that in a moment of temptation he had bur- 
dened himself with reproach for his whole life. 


CHAPTER X. 

AK IKDIFEEREKT BRIDEGROOM. 

The June sun shone brightly, and to the earPs young 
daughter life seemed to have changed and to have grown fair 
as a fairy dream. To herself she said she was like a traveler 
whOj after passing through dark and noisome deserts, comes 
suddenly on a fertile land of beauty and promise. 

Lady Darel had said but little to her on the matter. The 
young earl had gone to his mother. “I have brought you 


A THOKN llT HER HEART. 45 

strange news/ ^ he had said. “I am to marry Lady Hilda 
after all. She looked anxiously at her son^s face. 

“ Why have you altered your mind, Leonard she said. 

He looked embarrassed; it would not be manly to say that 
Lady Hilda wished for the marriage, yet unless he said that he 
could say nothing. 

“ I can not tell you, mother,"’^ he said, ‘%but the matter is 
settled; we shall be married on the day before her birthday.” 

Then Lady Darel, that most proud and stately of matrons, 
rose from her seat and clasped her arms round the neck of 
her son. 

‘‘ Lam glad, Leonard,” she cried. “ I have tried to make 
myself think that I did not care how it was settled, but I do 
care very much. I could not have borne it for you to leave 
me, and now there will be no need.^^ 

“ I am glad you are pleased, mother,^^ he said. And then 
she detected the absence of all music from his voice and hap- 
piness from his face. She would not make any comment on it. 
Enough that now her son could hold his own among the peers 
of England, and that his fortune was secure. 

“ Mother,” said the young earl, after a pause, “you will 
not let me be teased about this any more than you can help. 

I do not understand such affairs. Take the management of 
everything in your own hands; you know the date of the mar- 
riage. I think I will go down to Hampshire for a short time. 
Guy Brevil is at Oatlands and wants to see me. What do you 
say?” 

The proud lady looked wistfully at her son. 

“ I say, my dear Leonard, that it looks strange for a man 
to run away from his betrothed in so hurried a fashion. You 
had better remain here for a week; then you need not return 
until your wedding-day.'’^ 

“ My wedding-day,’^ he repeated, and the pain in his voice 
touched the mother’s heart. She kissed the handsome face 
with more tenderness than she had ever shown to him before; 
but he turned from her with a great sigh. 

Then Lady Darel went to her young charge; she must 
speak a few words to the young girl, who was to be her son’s 
wife. She found Lady Hiida standing where her son had left 
her, a happy smile on her lips, lost in blissful confusion. No 
need for pity there; the light that shone on the girl’s face made 
her look so beautiful that Lady Darel hardly knew her. The 
soft, dreamy, tender smile died away when Lady Darel spoke. 
She went up to the young girl and lightly touched her fore- • 
head with her lips. 


46 


A THOEN m HER HEART. 


“ My SOU has Just told me something/^ she said. I was 
much pleased, indeed, to hear it. I am to have a new daugh- 
ter instead of losing a ward. 

For once the girFs earnest, loving nature broke through all 
restraint; she forgot the hard, proud, cold nature, she forgot 
the worldly heart, and flinging her arms around Lady DareFs 
stately flgure, she cried, with passionate emotion : 

‘‘ Oh, Lady Darel, I am so young and so ignorant,^ teach 
me how to love and to please your son. 

She drew herself from the girFs embrace with a sudden 
darkening of her face. 

“ Your own heart must teach you that," she said, ‘‘ no one 
else can," and Lady Hilda shrunk with burning blushes at 
her own temerity. I wish to say," continued Lady Darel, 
“ that my son has left the whole of the arrangements with 
me. As we have no time to spare we will begin to-morrow. 
Your trousseau must be begun at once; we will talk it over 
to-morrow morning." 

“ Very well," said Lady Hilda, meekly. 

She was deeply interested in her trousseau, but Just now 
she wanted to be alone to dream. 

What was it that was beginning to burn like fire in her heart, 
that made her heart beat as though the rhythm of sweet music 
were running through it? What was it that thrilled each 
nerve, each pulse, that had stolen in on her seness, that had 
suddenly changed the whole face of the world for her, that 
had dashed the sunlight with gold, that put music into the 
song of the birds, that gave new colors to the flowers, that 
suddenly woke the whole world into a flush of beauty, and 
music, and fragrant warmth? 

What was it? She did not know it was not the fact that 
money was to be hers — that she was to be rich, honored, hold 
a high position in the world. It was not the fact that she was 
to be married, for to her childish mind marriage merely meant 
that she was to live altogether with Lord Dunhaven, and that 
he would always be kind to her. She could not analyze or un- 
derstand the new and strange sensation that made life quite a 
different matter to her. She was very happy, yet without un- 
derstanding the source of her happiness,- without realizing at 
all that the passionate love of a life had come to her, and 
that the faint, sweet happiness beating through her heart and 
brain was the keen delight of love’s young dream. 

She Began to be conscious of many strange sensations; when 
she heard Lord D unhaven’s voice her face flushed, her heart 
beat; when by accident her hands touched his, it was as 


A THOEN IN HEK HEAET. 


47 


though a magnetic thrill had passed through her whole being. 
What did it mean? She could not understand it. The fact 
that she was to be always with him was to her like a great 
gleam of golden sunlight; she dared not look at it because it 
was so dazzlingly bright. Yet he could not have been more 
indifferently cold to her than he was — the very sight of her 
irritated him, because it reminded him that he had been weak 
and easily infinenced — that he had failed in doing vyhat he 
believed to be-righton account of a few words from the lips of 
a child. 

He never spoke a word of love to her, never hinted at it, 
never took the slender hands in his own, never whispered lov- 
ing words in her ear, never touched the golden head with caress- 
ing hand, never touched the sweet, pathetic face on which 
love for him was writing so strange a story. But when they 
met at meals he was kind to her; he attended to her wants, 
he talked to her on the topics of the day, and to the desolate 
girl who had never known a kind word this was a seventh 
heaven. It was a fooBs paradise at best — better that than 
none. 

Slowly, surely, fatally, a great passionate love was waking 
in the girl’s heart; no half love, fed on smiles and kisses, no 
ohildish affection, but the one great, almost terrible love, that 
is given to women once in a life-time, and can never be re- 
newed. It came so slowly that she was hardly aware of it 
herself, she was in total ignorance until the truth broke upon 
her quite suddenly. 

It was one morning when she had met Lord Hunhaven sud- 
denly in the drawing-room; he. spoke a few kindly words to 
her, and when he went away she bent down and kissed the 
chair on which his hand had rested. 

It came to her quite suddenly, then her face flushed to a 
burning crimson; she covered it with her hands. 

“ I love him!” she cried. “ Oh, my God, I love him!” 

That was what it all meant — the golden light, the flush of 
color, the sweet music; it meant that she loved him. 

“ Let me say it over again to myself,” she said. “I love 
him — I who, one year ago was the most desolate creature in 
the wide world, I love him^. ” 

She did not stop to think whether he loved her or not; one 
mystery at a time was as much as her heart could grasp. She 
loved him and she was going to live with him always. 

She was very happy. Her very ignorance made her happi- 
ness; the cold looks of mother and son did not hurt her— she 
had known nothing else; the negligent manner of her lover 


48 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


did not hurt her — his negligence was greater kindness than she 
had ever received before. She was not likely to find any fault 
in their manner, she who had been almost an outcast. 

The week passed, and Lord Dunhaveri wenj; away; but 
because in going he had shaken hands with her, and told her 
to be careful during the hot weather, she was in an ecstasy of 
delight. That any one should’ care whether the weather 
should affect her or not, it was something wonderful, and her 
delight showed how utterly unused to it she jvas. Then he 
was gone and nothing remained but to prepare the trousseau. 
It was wonderful how the girl brightened and improved; every 
day developed new beauty in her; only there were no loving 
eyes to note it. 

“ My wedding-dress,’^ she said one morning, in reply to 
some remark of Lady Darel’s. “Is it possible that I shall 
ever wear a wedding-dress?” 

“ You will certainly wear one if you are to be married at 
all,” was her ladyship’s brief reply; “ and the sooner you de- 
cide on the material the better. ” 

“ But I do not know, I can not choose; dear Lady Darel, 
choose for me,” she said. 

“ To most young girls a wedding-dress is a matter of great 
moment,” said my lady, “ and is seldom left to the choice of 
others!” 

“ Then let me have whatever you think Lord Dunhaven 
would approve and admire.” 

My lady’s face was a study; then she controlled herself and 
answered : 

“I do not imagine that my son would have any choice in 
the matter,” she said. 

“ Then let me have something that is very beautiful to do 
honor to the day,” said Lady Hilda, and my lady was better 
pleased. 

So the trousseau, was prepared— dresses and luxuries that 
made Lady Hilda look up in wonder. Once she ventured to 
say that there was too much, and some of the things were too 
good for her. My lady answered almost angrily, that noth- 
ing could be too good for the Countess of Dunhaven. 

The days seemed to fly by — the earl was to return two days 
before the day appointed for the wedding. Lady Hilda never 
remembered how they passed, to her they were one bewilder- 
ing whirl. 

She was alone when the earl arrived — he went at once to 
the library, where his lady mother awaited him; but she was 
not sent for, She h^td dressed herself with unusual care and 


A THOKN m HER HEART. 


49 


I 

attention, hoping that he would think that she had improved, 
but hour after hour passed, and no summons came for her. 
The tears rose to her eyes— it was a bitter disappointment. 

^ “ Never mind,^^ she said to herself, ‘‘ I shall see him at 
dinner-time,^^ and with that she was obliged to be content. 


CHAPTER XL 

A DISGRACEEUL ADMISSION. 

They met at dinner-time, but the greeting between the 
unwilling bridegroom and .the girl who had fed her love on 
dreams was of the coldest. He held out his hand to her with 
a few indifferent words. She was too ignorant, too much en- 
grossed in her own sensation to know how much this cold 
greeting meant, yet she was conscious of something like a cold 
chill of disappointment. 

When dinner was ended she thought he would probably join 
her in the pretty little garden that made the back of the great 
fashionable mansion pleasant as the country. She went 
there. The drawing-room windows opened on to it, great rose- 
bushes half concealed them, and the pretty garden-chair was 
placed among the roses. She sat down there wondering if he 
would come; they were to be married in two days. Surely he 
would have something to say to her about it. It was pleasant 
sitting out there among the roses, the golden sunlight falling 
on all around, the western wind caressing the flowers, how 
warm, and bright, and sunny; she shuddered as she thought 
of the yellow-ribbed sand and the gray sea. 

The wind and flowers and sunshine even might have pitied 
her as she sat there so utterly alone; the pathetic beauty of the 
young face and figure would have excited pity in any mind. 
Happy thoughts and bright ideas were all new to her, but 
they occupied her mind now. Her eyes had in them a clear, 
sweet radiance, her lips were wreathed with smiles, her face 
was bright and glad. She had everything in her mind which 
could make a young girl happy. She had a bright life, before 
her, she had for the first time in her life every kind of beau- 
tiful dress and ornament. Shd was to marry the man she 
loved. 

Ah, yes, she loved him. In everything else she was a child, 
in innocence, in ignorance, in want of understanding worldly 
matters— a child, in purity and simpleness of heart, a child^s 
soul looked out of the dark eyes, but she had a woman^s love. 
Slje had yielded to it slowly but completely; a great love filled 


50 


A THOKN m HEE HEAET. 


her whole heart and soul, filled the whole world for her; her 
whole being had become absorbed in his, 

8he raised her happy, grateful eyes to the blue summer 
heavens. 

“The clouds have cleared for me, she said to herself, 
“ they have cleared for me after all, and I believe that I am 
going to have a happy life.-’"’ 

It was strange that she never asked herself if he loved her; 
she thought so much more of the fact that she loved him. 

“ I am going to be happy,^^ she repeated to herself. “ I 
need not envy the birds and the flowers now, I need not envy 
the fisher girls who had lovers to love them — I am going to be 
happy myself.'’^ 

While the words were still on her lips — while the love-light 
gleamed in her eyes, the sudden sound of a voice — the sudden 
hearing of what were to her terrible words, struck her silent 
and dumb — struck the smile from her lips, struck the light 
from the sweet eyes and the music from the saddened heart — 
the voice she loved best in all the world. The words stabbed 
her; they slew the bright young life within her. 

She would have risen and gone away but the strength of her 
limbs failed her. 

White, faint, dumb, with her great passion of sorrow, she 
sat and listened to the words that made her death-knell. 

Lord Dunhaven was speaking; he had entered the drawing- 
room with Lady Darel, and they had taken their seat at the 
window, quite unconscious that the young girl was sitting 
among the roses. He was saying: 

“ I can not look happy, mother. It is of no use trying. In 
whatever light I look at it I am quite filled with despair. 
There are times when I am inclined to give it up and go to 
America. Then again it seems a great pity to do that when I 
could make everything bright for you in England. 

“ What induced you to offer to marry her if she is so dis- 
tasteful to you?’^ said Lady DareL 

He sighed heavily. 

“ I did not exactly ask her. I found that she wished for the 
rq^rriage, and — well, I felt sorry for her; she looked so young 
and so friendless. The truth is— and I hate myself when I 
say it — I hate the circumstances that have hemmed me round 
— but the real truth is, I want the money, but not the girl.’^ 

“ Give her up then. Better that than making yourself 
miserable over her. 

“ 'No/^ he replied, slowly, “ I do not love her, certainly. I 
am not even sure that I like her, but I am sorry for her. She 


A THOEK m HEE HEAET. 


51 


has had a lonely, desolate childhood, and she seems in some 
measure to cling to me. I must take all the consequences my- 
self. It would have been easier had she been a more attract- 
ive girl — pretty, accomplished, or anything of that kind, but 
there is nothing in her to win a man^s love. However, we 
will not discuss it; it has to be done. Do not talk, to me any 
more about it, mother. I am going down to my club now.^^ 

“ And I promised to join the Duchess of Ohapton at the 
opera, said Lady Darel. 

Neither of them heard the soft sound of some one falling 
among the roses — neither of them heard the faint low cry that 
went up from the broken heart — neither of them gave one 
thought to the young girl, whose rising sun of happiness had 
set in such sudden darkness and gloom. 

Lady Darel went to the opera; Lord Dunhaven went to his 
club, and the silent figure lay face downward among the fallen 
roses. No one missed her. As the lord and lady of the man- 
sion were out, there was high revelry in the servants^ hall. 

A witty footman entertained the whole establishment with 
jests over the approaching wedding. The lady Vmaid, Annie, 
who alone in that great house, professed to have any care for 
the future mistress of it, had been invited to join the party — 
there was no one to remember as she lay there in the first keen 
smart of her pain, no one but her mother in heaven. No one 
asked, Where is my lady?” No one went with tender anx- 
ious thoughts to her room. She was utterly alone under the 
light of the stars. 

She lay there, the earDs only daughter, the bride who was to 
be, the future Countess of Dunhaven, until the moon had risen 
and the stars came out — until the sweet brooding silence of 
the perfumed night had settled on the land, and not one living 
creature even wondered where she was. 

She did not know how long she lay there; the cold and the 
dew awoke her, and at first she did not remember where she 
was, or what had happened. 

Then came the sensation of keen pain, over her forehead, 
and she found that she had fallen on the sharp long thorns of 
the red roses. Slowly the strength came back to the bruised 
prostrate figure, slowly memory and pain were turned to the 
bruised heart. She rose from the crushed fiowers, and stood 
under the evening skies. 

“ And I had been happy such a short time,^^ she said, with 
clasped hands; “ so short a time. Heaven has no pity for me. 
Why was I born when no love was to fall to my share?” 


52 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


She went back to the great gloomy desolate house — the 
laughter fromt he servants^ hall was the only sound in it. 

She went to her own room. The slow trickling of the blood 
down her face sent her to the mirror. There on the girlish 
brow was a deep wound, caused by the sharp thorns on which 
she had fallen. 

“ That does not bleed as my heart bleeds,^ ^ she said to her- 
self. ^ 

Her first impulse was to give up the marriage. How could 
she marry a man who said frankly that it was the money, and 
not the girl he wanted? How could she ever bear to look in 
his face with those cruel words branded on her brain? “ There 
is nothing in her to win any man^s love,'’ he said. Was it 
true? Why had Heaven been so cruel to her? Why had 
other girls and women this power of winning love which had 
been denied to her? 

Her short-lived dream of happiness was all over; a few mo- 
ments ago, she had dreamed of living happy, of loving and be- 
ing loved; now it was all over — the short gleam of light had 
set in dense darkness. 

She could not marry him: she longed to break it off at once, 
to tell him that the girl he despised should never be his wife. 
‘No sleep came to her eyes that night. There seemed to her 
but one alternative, and that was giving him up when he. saw 
nothing to love in her. How could she be his wife? . It was 
the money, he had owned with shame and sorrow — the money 
he needed, not herself. 

She would write a little note to him and tell him that quite 
by accident she had overheard what he had said, and that the 
marriage could never be. She lay down to rest, tears raining 
from her eyes, the keenest pain in her heart, and the deter- 
mination formed in her mind that she would not give him up. 

She tried to sleep, but the silent sweet darkness of the night 
brought back to her the strange silence that had reigned in 
the death chamber of her father; the awful outline of that 
rigid figure, the stern set white mass that had once been a face. 

All the shuddering dread and fear came over her again. 
What if that stern figure and stern face appeared by her side 
now. What if he had spoken enough; he had said that unless 
she fulfilled his command — obeyed his wishes — he should not 
rest even in his grave. What if he came to her now and told 
her that his command must be obeyed. She shuddered with 
mortal dread. There was a slight sound in the corridor out- 
side; she sprung from the pillow, her heart standing still with 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 53 

fear. He would not rest in his grave unless she married Lord 
Dunhaven. 

If it was to be so she had better marry him, no matter how 
much he disliked her. It would be easier to live in his society 
than to live in deadly fear of that horrible sight. If she could 
have mastered her fear, all would have been well; but she 
could not. No one had told her that superstition was but 
ignorance. She was so sorely afraid of her dead father that 
to keep him at rest in his grave she would have consented to 
live in torture for her whole life. 

CHAPTER XII 

A SLIGHTED BRIDE. 

The morning light dawned on a face pale with fear, stained 
with tears, and haggard with despair. During the long hours 
of that night she had lain without sleep, trying to make up her 
mind as to what she should do. Her own fears had mastered 
her, the dread of that terrible threat being realized, and her 
father not resting in his grave, had taken complete possession 
of her. Whatever else happened, that must be guarded 
against. 

During the long silence of the night a certain idea had 
occurred to her, and it was this — that ,no matter what else 
happened he should have the money; it was the money he 
wanted — not the girl — and the money he should have. 

She felt sorry for herself . the next morning when she stood 
before her glass. She looked like a crushed flower over which 
a storm had passed. Years of pair; and sorrow might jiave 
passed over her, she was so terribly changed; the girlish bloom, 
so fresh and tender, had gone from her face, her eyes were 
dim and had lost their light; great dark circles, caused by the 
long and weary night-watch, were underneath them, and on 
the white brow what looked like a red band. 

What will they say to me?’^ she thought, but there was no 
need to have wondered. 

Then, after much hesitation, she went down to the break- 
fast room. Lord Dunhaven hakl left it for some time, with- 
out even paying her the compliment of waiting for her, and 
Lady^Darel did not raise her. eyes from the Times as she 
entered. Lady Hilda returned to her own room until dinner. 
Lady Darel sent her up some luncheon, but never cared to in- 
quire what she was doing or anything about her. 

She could not endure to go down-stairs. It was the very 


54 


A THOKK IK HER HEART, 


season for roses — every room was perfumed with them, and 
the very odor made her faint and ill. She could never forget 
the anguish in her heart when she had fallen with her face on 
the ground, and the roses were crushed beneath her. 

They met at the solemn stately dinner; the next day was 
her wedding day. She had ceased to hope, ceased to expect; 
no red blush came to her face now when he touched her 
hand, no love-light came in her eyes when he addressed her. 
Her heart did not beat at the sound of his voice. 

She was cold as a marble statue, her heart and love were 
frozen. 

The dinner passed off quietly; it was nearly ended before 
Lady Darel noticed the wound on Lady Hilda'’ s brow. She 
looked up at her suddenly. 

“What have you done to your face?^^ she said. “You 
have a wound on it.^^ 

Lord Himhaven looked up quickly, too. 

She did flush or hesitate for one moment. The longing 
came to her to tell them where and why she had fallen — to tell 
them of the thorn in her heart, wliich was far sharper than the 
thorn on her brow; but of what use? They would only think 
that she had been listening ; they would dislike her the more 
for it. 

Lord Dunhaven bent forward that he might see her face 
even more plainly. . 

“It is really a wound. Lady Hilda, he said; “ how has it 
been done?^^ 

“ I fell,^^ she replied, briefly. 

“ But falling could not do thak,^^ he said, “ unless you fell 
on the sharp point of something.'’^ 

“ That I did; I fell on a very sharp point, she answered. 

“ You should be more careful,^^ interrupted Lady Darel, 
“ there is nothing more unlady-like than heedless movements; 
it will look strange to be married with a wound on your face.^^ 

“ It will be very.signiflcant,^^ she replied, hastily. 

“ Signiflcant of what?” asked Lady Darel. 

“ Of the wound in my heart,''’ thought Lady Hilda, but she 
made no reply, and Lady Darel did not care to continue the 
conversation. 

She listened like one in a dream, while Lady Darel spoke of 
the grandeur of the ceremony^ of the guests invited; 'of the 
wedding favors, and the wedding breakfast. Lord Dunhaven 
listened, as he always did, with courtesy and respect, to his 
mother, but he seemed to take very little interest in anything; 
Lady Hilda took even less. It would all have been so differ- 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


55 


ent to her had he loved her; it would have been different even 
had she never heard those cruel words— the words that had 
slain her youth and her love. 

Every preparation had been made; LadyDarel had resolved 
to make up in outward show what was wanting in inward hap- 
piness. She had arranged for six bride maids — young ladies 
who, not knowing the contents of the will, spent the greater 
part of their time in wondering what the young earl, so hand- 
some and well-bred, could see in that unformed girl. Lady 
Hilda in after years never remembered even the face of one of 
her bride-maids; the names she had not cared to know. No 
trouble, no expense had been spared over the empty ceremony 
that was to make these two one. A bishop was to marry them; 
the very cream of the nobility were invited to the wedding 
breakfast, prepared by Gunter. Outwardly, nothing was 
wanting; they might have been the most loving of lovers; it 
might have been the happiest marriage in the world; out- 
wardly, there was everything done that it was possible to do. 
White wedding-favors, smart new dresses had been given to 
the servants, while the heroine for whom all this preparation 
was made, sat unloved, uncared for, quite alone. When din- 
ner ended, she had half-hesitated as to whether she should go 
into the drawing-room or not; if she went, it was quite possi- 
ble that she might be very much in the way. They never 
cared to talk much before her; they told her no secrets; she 
was not one of them at all. 

She would go to her room and hide her bruised face and 
her bruised heart. If they wanted her they would send for 
her. Mr. Preston, the family solicitor, had been there for 
some time, all the marriage deeds and settlements had been 
arranged and signed, and there was no more business to be 
done; there never had been any love-making. 

Mr. Preston looked from the handsome, indifferent face of 
the young earl, to the pale, sad face of the young girl. 

“ There is something cruel about this,^^ he said to himself. 
“ Please Heaven, if my daughter grows up, she shall not look 
like this on her marriage-day. 

There was nothing for Lady Hilda to do, t^ie magnificent 
trousseau, was all packed. A bitter smile came over her face 
as she read the address: 

“ The Countess of D unhaven. 

“It is a great pity,^^ she said to herself, “ that after that 
name they have nob written— “ A girl who has nothing in her 
to win any man^s love. 

Every arrangement was complete; the bride and bridegroom 


56 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


were to go to Paris for their honey-moon; a telegram had been 
sent to Meurice^s Hotel for rooms; nothing remained but the 
marriage itself. A half wonder arose in her mind, as she sat 
alone in her room, whether on this her wedding-eve, they 
would send for her, whether they would find any kind words 
for her. She need not have wondered, no one thought of her. 

Later on in the evening, she was going down to the library 
in search of a book; the lamps had not been lighted, and the 
corridors were dark. It seemed as though she were destined to 
hear unpleasant things; as she passed Lady DarePs room she 
heard her talking to her maid Annie, and could not help hear- 
ing the words she said: 

“ Do paint her face, or get some rouge for her: I assure you 
.that she looks a perfect fright; I shall be quite ashamed of 
her. 

She heard the maid^s reply: 

“ I do not think my lady would use either powder, paint or 
rouge. ” 

‘°She must,^^ said her ladyship, decidedly; “ we can not be 
disgraced. 

Then Lady Hilda heard no more; as she went on her way 
the sound of the voices died away in the distance* 

“ It does not hurt me/^ she said to herself, with a slow, sad 
smile; “lam not surprised. I had all the hurt that could be 
given me last night. I am a fright; that is what he meant 
when he said that I could win no man^s love.^-’ 

It had not hurt her; she repeated the words over and over 
again; yet her heart ached will dull pain, her eyes burned with 
unshed tears. 

“ I wonder,’^ she said to herself, “ if there are many like 
me; if there is any one so utterly lonely, so desolate, so un- 
loved."" 

She thought of her young mother, who had been married for 
her money — of the lonely life and dreary death. 

“Have I inherited my face from her?"" she thought. 
“ Shall I, too, be Countess of D unhaven, solitary in life and 
in death? Why was I left for such a fate? 

“ I am seventeen to-morrow; it is my birthday, and it will 
be my wedding-day; yet no creature will say one kind word to 
me, no one will kiss my face, no one will think or care 
whether I am happy or not. Why has Heaven left me so 
desolate, yet given me a longing for love?"" 

So slowly, sadly, this the eve of her wedding-day, wore on. 

Lord Dunhaven had for a wonder noticed her absence. 

Wo m to bo marriod to-morrow,"" ho had said to himself. 


A mow m HER HEART. 57 

‘‘ I really ought to say a few words to the child. How she 
blushes when I go near her. 

He went to the drawing-room; she was not there; in a care- 
less fashion he looked into the other rooms; there was no 
Hilda. It did not matter much; yet, as he said to himself, it 
had rather a strange look to marry on the morrow one to whom 
you had barely spoken on the previous evening. 

“ She is certainly fond of me in a childish sort of way,^^ he 
said; “ we shall get on well enough. 

'^^ihen Lady Darel, exhausted with the efforts she had made, 
came down to the drawing-room, he looked up languidly. 

‘‘ Where is Lady Hilda? he asked. 

She is in her own room,^^ replied my lady. “ I have just 
sent Annie to her. 

“We ought to ask her to join us, I think,^^ he said; but 
his lady mother looked <juite angrily at him. 

“ I do not see any need of it; she could be here if she liked. 
What is the use of sending for her? She never has anything 
to say. ’’ 

And Lady Hilda waited until midnight, thinking each mo- 
ment some message would come for her; then she wrote a let- 
ter, which she placed carefully out of sight. 


CHAPTER XIIT. 

THE WEDDIHG-I> A Y. 

“ Her wedding-day.^^ It seemed a very mockery that the 
sun shone as it had never shone before; that the golden light 
beamed down in shining floods, that the blue sky had no 
clouds; that the little birds sung as though they knew all 
about it, had been in love, and married themselves — sung as 
though the whole jubilant world were listening. How many 
happy girls has that same song woke to a rapture of delight 
because it was their wedding-day. 

The dew lay shining on the grass and leaves, the white lilies 
had opened their golden cups, the red roses were all awake. 
Had there been any love in the marriage, this would have been 
the very day for it, but Lady Hilda rose heavy at heart, 
miserable beyond all words, longing for even death to end the 
miserable fever she called life. 

Even in her own room she could hear the kind of happy 
confusion that reigned in that usually well-ordered mansion— 
' she had no part in it. She stood for some time at the window 
watching the gleams of golden light, the bright-winged butter- 


58 


A THORN IK HER HEART* 


flies, the pretty bees — everything in creation seemed happy ex- 
cept herself. 

‘‘ I need not expect to be happy,^^ she thought. I have 
heard my fate. I arn a girl who will not win any man^s love. 
I must go through life content with indifference.^^ 

She smiled when Annie spread out the magnificent wedding 
costume before her — the maid was of a kindly disposition and 
did not like to see that sad young face and the weary tired eyes; 
surely her young mistress ought to smile on this her wedding 
day. She spread out the rich, glistening folds of satin, the 
lovely lace, the veil that was fine as gossamer, and Cady Hilda 
turned away with tears in her eyes. 

‘‘ What did it matter — who would care to see her? Who 
would care how she was dressed? It was her wedding-day, 
and there was no one to say a kind word to her, no one to kiss 
her face, to wish her joy, to bless her in her new life; no one 
to speak even the most ordinary words of comfort to her. She 
wondered if she would always go through life in the same deso- 
late, lonely fashion. 

She was half dressed for the ceremony when a knock came 
to the door, and Lady Harel in all the sweeping splendor of 
her dress entered. 

She looked at the girffs pale face with great disapproval. 

“ My dear Lady Hilda, she said, “you look distressingly 
pale. You must have some rouge. 

Lady Hilda shrunk from the words. 

“ I would much rather not,^^ she said. 

“But you do not look like a bride,^^ cried my lady in dis- 
may. 

“ I do not know how brides look or feel,^^ she replied, “ but 
I should not like rouge. After all, it matters so little; no one 
will notice me/^ 

“ It matters a great deal,^^ said my lady. “ Lady Hilda is 
one person, the Countess of I) unhaven is another. You must 
study appearances.^^ 

“ I will, but not to that extent. Lady Harel. My father 
will rest in his grave after to-day, will he not?^^ 

The stately lady in the magnificent dress drew back 



“ My dear Lady Hilda, pray do not talk in that fashion; 
your father has always rested in his grave, I hope.'’^ 

“ He said he should not unless this marriage took place, 
said the girl, musingly, ‘‘ and I believe he would not. He was 
always stern of purpose. He will rest now. 

“ My dear child, I can not understand you,^^ cried Lady 


A THOEK IK HER HEART. 


59 


Darel. “ Why talk about such melancholy matters on your 
wedding-day. You have positively made me forget why I 
came.^^ 

Then her ladyship laid down a pretty morocco case, and 
opening it showed Lady Hilda a very beautiful bracelet. She 
was so unusually gracious that Lady Hilda hardly recognized 
her. 

“ This should have been here before to have taken its place 
among your other wedding presents, but it was norsent home 
until this morning. There was a difficulty in matching some 
of the stones. • I wish you to wear it to-day, and whenever you 
look at it to assure yourself of my affection for you.^^ 

The young girl thanked her briefly. A few weeks since and 
such kind words would have wrung from her a heart full of 
love; it was too late now. She knew that it was for her money, 
and not for herself that mother and son valued her. 

But still further to her intense surprise. Lady Darel bent 
down and kissed her — not merely touched her face with her 
lips, as was her ordinary fashion, with a touch light as a but- 
terlly^s wings. She kissed her and said: 

‘‘ My dear Hilda, you become my daughter to-day, and I 
hope we shall always be good friends. 

The words were not much in themselves, but they were a 
great deal coming from her. Lady Hilda thought of the day 
when she had prayed tliis same stately lady to teach her how 
to love her son, and had been treated with the greatest con- 
tempt. 

It was all too late now. Her resolve was taken. Mother 
and son both wanted her money, not herself. She received 
the caress in silence, and murmured a few words in which there 
was no meaning, but which amply satisfied Lady Darel; she 
even congratulated herself that her teaching had not been all 
thrown away — that she had gained much in tranquillity of 
manner. 

“ You will wear the bracelet to-day, Hilda?^^ she said, and 
the young girl answered: 

‘‘ Yes. 

Still Lady Darel lingered and there was unusual emotion in 
her face. 

“ I love my son very much,^^ she said, “ and I am very proud 
of him. I hope he will be happy, I hope you will have many 
tranquil years together.'’^ 

‘‘ He will be happy, said the girl. “ He will have all that 
he wants, and that makes happiness, I suppose, in this world. 

Lady Darel looked thoughtfully at her; she, did not under- 


60 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


stand the girl* in this mood; it was unusual; there was some 
subtle change in her face and her manner, as though she had 
passed through some ordeal. Yet that could not be; there 
had been nothing to disturb the even tenor of her way. Still 
her ladyship was baffled. Lady Hilda was not herself. 

She quitted the room, and Annie, looking at her young mis- 
tress, said: 

“We have not much time to lose, my lady. Shall you wear 
this bracelet?^^ 

Never a look did the young lady deign to cast on the brill- 
iant jewels. 

“ Yes, as Lady Darel wishes it,^^ she replied, indifferently. 

And the maid, startled out of all propriety by this indiffer- 
ence to such a magnificent present, said: 

“ But do you not care, my lady, do you not really care?^^ 

“ No,^'’ was the brief reply. 

Then came another rap at the door; this time it was a su- 
perb bouquet from the young earl. 

“ Blowers, said Lady Hilda. “ Look, Annie, for the 
thorns. 

“ The thorns, my lady,^’ she replied, “ there are none. 

And again the thought came to her that the sharpest thorn 
of all was the one planted in her own heart. 

So the ill-omened marriage took place. The sun shone, the 
birds sung, the flowers were all bright and gay. The fashiona- 
ble church was filled with a fashionable crowd, the elite of 
London were present at what every one said was the prettiest 
wedding of the season. The bride- maids were young and 
beautiful girls, superbly dressed. The fashionable papers 
went into raptures over the toilets of the ladies present. The 
marriage ceremony was a complete and perfect success. Who 
noticed that the face of the bride was white and cold as that of 
a marble statue? Who knew or cared that her heart was 
pierced by a long, sharp thorn, and that in her mind was one 
fixed, deadly resolve. 

The grand ceremony came to an end at last, and those who 
caught a glimpse of the bride^s white face were awed by it; it 
was no common pallor, it was not the pale hue that comes 
from emotion, it was more like death. Then came the driv- 
ing of carriage^ and the arrival at home. A long breakfast, 
one of the most magnificent ever offered to wedding guests, 
during which the bridegroom talked to hide his want of in- 
terest, and the bride sat white, mute, silent, with an expression 
that no one could understand on her face. She listened like 
one in a dream to the speeches, the cheers, the confusion; then 


A THORK IN HER HEART. 


61 


came the time for her to go. The bride-maids fluttered around 
her with gay words and bright smiles, the elder ladies looked 
interested; the gentlemen as though they would be pleased 
when the whole ceremony was over. Lady Darel had genuine 
tears in her eyes when she bade adieu to her idolized son. 

“ I hope he will be happy/ ^ she said to herself, ‘‘ but I doubt 
it with that girl. ” 

She kissed the young countess. 

“ Do your best to make my son happy,^^ she said. 

The dark, sad eyes were raised slowly to her face, with an 
expression that she never forgot. 

‘ He will be quite happy, she said, “lam sure of it. 

There was something m the expression of her face that made 
Lady Darel anxious, she hardly knew why — something in those 
sad sweet eyes haunted her. 

“ Hilda,^^ she cried, suddenly, “ what do you mean?^’ 

A faint smile quivered over the girl’s face. 

“ I mean — I mean — just what I say. He will be happy 
enough,” she replied. 

Then the general adieus took place, and when the young 
pair had started with Annie and the valet, the remarks made 
upon them were not of the most pleasant. 

“ How very ill the young countess looks,” said one. 

“ Did you notice that her hand was as cold as death?” asked 
another. 

And the general feeling was, that although the ceremony 
had been one of the grandest, yet the chief actors in it were 
not to be envied. 

It was five in the afternoon when they started for Dover; 
they went across to Calais by the evening boat and on to Paris 
by the express train; every detail of the journey had been 
arranged, therefore no word was spoken during the drive to 
London bridge, save once, when the earl said he never remem- 
bered- to have seen London so crowded. 


Then came the confusion of starting. The earl purchased 
every jDaper or periodical he thought she would like, and gave 
them to her. The white lips were never unlocked for one 
word. 

Then at last they were on their way to Dover, and the earl 
looking for the first time that day at his wife’s face, saw how 
white, and set, and sad it was; he saw too that the crimson 
wound on the white brow was not healed. 

“ How did you hurt your face. Lady Hilda?” he asked, and 
she told him again, that she liacl fallen on a sharp thorn; but 


i 


62 


A THORlsr II^ HER HEART. 


she said to herself that it was not half so sharp as the cruel 
thorn that pierced her heart. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

STRAKGE COHVERSATIOH. 

Never once did she turn her face from the window; her 
eyes rested on the fields and the trees and on the great church 
spires; they lingered sadly on the groups of children at play, 
on the lovers lingering in the green lanes; on the pretty home- 
steads where mothers stood holding rosy-faced babies in their 
arms, lingered lovingly, sadly, for she knew that such sweet 
ties would never be hers, she would never listen to loving words 
whispered in the silence of the green lanes, she would never 
stand to watch children at their play; all the happiness of life 
was over for her, and she was seventeen that day. 

Then the great chalk hills came in view, and she knew that 
Dover was near. The white face grew whiter, and the dark 
eyes more sad. 

“We are near the end of our journey now,^^ said Lord Dun- 
haven; “ I can perceive the brine of the sea in the air.^^ 

He felt compelled to say something, for he had watched the 
white still face until wonder and pity had grown in his heart. 
AVhy was she so unlike herself? so cold, so solemn? Was every 
girPs face like hers, so sad, so sweet? 

The only charm she had ever had for him, small as it was, 
had been that she liked him — that she showed such genuine 
pleasure in his society — that her face brightened at his words 
and his coming. Now all this had gone, had quite disap- 
2>eared, there was no trace of it. She could not have been more 
silent, there was something in her face that he did not like — it 
startled him; she did not turn her head with a bright dimpling 
smile as she had been accustomed to do when he spoke to her, 
but she answered slowly: 

“ Yes, we are near our journey^s end.’^ 

All the music had gone from her voice — it was sad and 
wearied with a ring of pain quite new to it. 

“ Are you tired?^^ he asked, after a short time. 

“ Tired? No, not in the least, she answered, and as she 
spoke, she wondered what he would say if she were to tell him 
that she had overheard his cruel words, that it was the 
money he wanted and not the girl? That there was nothing 
in her to win any maiPs love? AVhat would he say to her if 
he knew thaft? 


A THORJT IK HER HEART. 


63 


There was another long silence; he broke it because he was 
ashamed of it. 

‘‘ Are you quite comfortable. Lady Hilda?’’ he asked. 

‘‘ Quite,” she told him, and then she began to wonder what 
the wedding trip of real lovers must be, how they must laugh, 
talk and enjoy it; why, even she would have been happy but 
for this thorn in her heart, had she never overheard the cruel 
words that had taken her youth, her happiness from her. 

But for that, although there was no love in it, they would 
have talked gayly, and she would have been happy because 
she was with him. 

‘‘ I wonder what you will think of France?” he continued. 
“ I always enjoy a few months in Paris. I hope you will like 
it.” 

‘‘ I hope so,” she replied. 

“What can I say to interest her?” he thought. “That 
quite sad face distresses me. I wish she would look diFerent; 
I mean to be kind to her and make her happy. ” 

He rose from his own seat and took one by her side. 

“ Hilda,” he said, “ you have studied the scenery long 
enough; I wish you would look at me. ” 

She did not move or stir. 

“ Look at me, Hilda,” he repeated, “ I want to see what 
you are thinking about.” 

“ Ho you really wish to see my face?” she asked; but the 
tone of her voice was cold and grave. 

“ Yes, I do,” he replied, slowly and gravely. 

She turned to him, raising her veil as she did so. 

“ Why should you wisL to see it? It is a face that will 
never win admiration or love,” she replied, and he was too 
indifferent to recognize his own words. 

“ I want to read, if I can, what you have been thinking of 
ever since we left London,’ ’ he said. Then he started, awed 
into silence by the white sad young face with the vivid crimson 
wound on the fair face. It was no girl’s face looking at him, 
but a woman’s dark eyes with the tragedy of wounded love and 
despair. 

“ Child,” he cried, “ what have you been doing to yourself? 

I do not understand you — you seem to have passed at once 
from the simplicity of childhood to the tragedy of a ruined 
womanhood. What is going wrong?” 

“ Nothing,” she answered. 

She clinched her little white hand so tightly that the wed- 
ding-ring mpde a great dent in her finger. 

“ Nothin/^,” he repeated, “ that can not be true. Surely, 


64 


A THOEN m HER HEART. 


Hilda, you were not unwilling for the marriage? I — I 
thought it was you who wished it.^^ 

‘‘ Yes, it was I who wished it,^^ she replied, faintly. It 
was I who bought— it was my fault. 

“ Do not call it a fault,^^ he said, quickly. “ If you do not 
repent, it is all right. 

In his own heart he did not think she repented. She made 
no answer. She said to herself, Of what use would any 
speech be, now that her resolve was formed? Of what use 
complaint and regret? He only wanted the money, and he 
would have that.^^ 

Hilda,” said Lord Dunhaven, “ this is our wedding-day, 
give me one kiss.^^ 

Ho flush came to the fair sad face. It grew whiter, and the 
lips quivered. 

Ho,^’ she replied, proudly, turning from him. “ There 
can be no kiss from you to me because you do not love me. ” 

He was vexed and disconcerted. 

‘‘ But you are my wife,” he said. 

It does not follow that you love me,^^ she added. I 
have heard you call yourself a truthful man, can you say hon- 
estly that you love me even in the least?’ 

The dark clear eyes were fixed with such unwavering truth 
on his, that he could not speak a false word to her. 

“ There is no question of love, but of obedience to your 
father’s commands,” he said. “ You must do me the-justice 
to admit that there has been no love in the matter. ” 

“Ho, there has not. Then why do you hesitate to answer 
my question. Do you love me?” 

She knew quite well that he did not. She had heard him 
say that no man could lov^e her, but she wanted the satisfac- 
tion of hearing him say so. 

“ I will answer you,” he said. “ Ho, I do not; but I think 
we may be very comfortable together. I do not doubt but we 
shall get on as well as other married people do. ” 

“lam sorry for married people then,” she said, with a 
little flash of satire which her companion left unanswered. 

“ I think, Hilda, if we both try that we may be really com- 
fortable,” he said. “ I shall try my best to make you happy. 
You shall have all you want.” 

Again the strange little laugh that he can not understand. 

“ Thank you,” she said, “ you can give me everything ex- 
cept love. ” 

“ Plenty of people live without that,” he answered; and 
then again there was silence. He did not ask her to kiss him; 


A THORJ?' IN HER HEARl". 


6 ^ 


he did not even touch the little gloved hand that rested so 
lightly on the cushion. He went back to his old seat, feeling 
more puzzled about her than he had ever been before. 

They went on for some time, past the great white chalk 
hills, and then the young wife, looking up suddenly, said : 

Lord D unhaven, I do not understand business; I want you 
to tell me something. 

‘‘ I will tell you anything you may wish to know,^^ he said; 
“ but do you not think it is rather absurd always to call me 
Lord ‘Dunhaven. My name is Leonard. Do you like the 
name?^^ 

‘‘ Yes, I like it; but I do not think I shall ever call you by 
your name/^ she answered, gravely. 

What is the business you wish to know about?^^ he said, 
feeling more sure every moment that he had quite misunder- 
stood the girhs character. 

I have signed many deeds and papers, she said. Mr. 
Preston has read them all over to me; but J did not ‘have an 
idea of what they are about. I did not listen to them. 

He laughed as though the idea amused him. 

That is so exactly a lady's way of attending to legal docu^ 
ments," he said. 

She went on: 

” I want you to tell me," she said, ‘‘if all that money is 
safely yours now?" 

He looked gravely at her. He would far rather that the 
question had been of another kind. 

“ Yes, it is mine and yours," he answered. 

“Will you tell me what part of it is mine?" she asked. 

“ You would have known had you listened to Mr. Preston," 
he said; “ you have a settlement of so much a year out of it 
for your own purposes," he said. “ If I die before you it will 
all revert to you, unless — but I can not explain more." 

“ Tell me," she repeated, “ if I die what becomes of it?" 

“ My dear Hilda, do not talk about dying in that cold- 
blooded fashion. You give_me the horrors." 

“ Still will you answer my question," she said, “ what 
would become of it?" 

“ In that case," he said, “ it would all come to me." 

“ And you would do as ybu liked with it?" she asked. 

^ “ Yes; it would be at my own disposal," he replied. 

“ You might marry again and be quite happy," she said. 

He laughed. 

“How your imagination travels, Hilda," he said, “I have 

3 


66 


A THOKN IN’ HER HEART. 


only been married about seven hours, and you are talking 
about my second marriage. 

I want you to answer me the question simply from a busi- 
ness point of view/^ she said. If I die could you marry 
again and keep it?^^ 

Yes, certainly I could, he answered. ‘‘If I died, you 
could marry again and keep it. 

She answered him by a low, mirthless laugh. 

“This is a strange conversation for a wedding-day,^^ he 
said; “ you do not use very lively subjects, Hilda,^^ he said. 

“ I want to understand, she said; “ the whole affair is so 
incomprehensible to me that I can not understand it. I 
thought, perhaps, there might be some other restrictions that 
I did not understand.'^ ^ 

“You should have asked Mr. Preston all about it," said 
Lord D unhaven. 

She did not tell him that when the deeds were read over to 
her she had not learned the whole truth, that it was. entirely 
for her money and^not for herself, that he married her. 

“ I am quite satisfied now," she said, with trembling lips. 
“ I merely wanted to know if it were all' safe for you." 

As she spoke, she pressed. with her fingers a letter that she 
had hidden in the bodice of her traveling-dress. 

“ He does not understand now," she said to herself, “ but 
he will know all about it when he has read this. ' ' 

“I shall always remember what a curious conversation we 
had during our wedding-trip," he said. “ Here is Dover at 
last." 

“ Yes, here is Dover," and the young wife's face grew white 
as with the pallor of death when she saw they had arrived at 
last. 


CHAPTER XV. ^ 

A EUGITIYE WIFE. 

The station at Dover was crowded with passengers; as 
usual, there were some lookers-on. A lady watching the pas- 
sengers as they alighted, called her husband 's attention to 
Lady D unhaven. 

“Look," she said, “at that young lady; how beautifully 
she is dressed. How young she it, yet she has a look like 
coming death in her face." 

The young countess, who overheard the words, smiled to 
herself, and clasped more tightly the letter she held in her 
hand. 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


67 


She walked with her husband in silence on to the pier; there 
was the lovely, laughing summer sea; the waves that she had 
loved and listened to. A great longing came over her to open 
her arms and spring into that friendly sea, the chime of the 
waves was so familiar to her. She saw the Channel boat at 
the end. The earl cried out: 

‘^The ‘British Queen.-’ I went in that same boat last 
year.^’ 

They descended the steps and stood together on the deck 
while all the luggage was brought in. Lord Dunhaven said, 
at last: 

“ Now we are all right; the two servants are here, the lug- 
gage is all safe; we shall start in a few minutes.^’ 

She looked wildly around. 

“ 1 should like to go to the cabin,^^ she said. “ I will g& 
alone. 

“No, you will not, indeed; I shall take you,’’ he said; 
“ and then if you prefer remaining there I will have a cigar at 
the other end of the deck. I always enjoy watching the man 
at the wheel. ” He walked with her to the narrow stairs that 
led to the cabin. “ I must not go down with you,” he said, 
“ I see so many ladies there.” 

She turned to him and looked in his face. 

“ Lord Dunhaven, you asked me to kiss you a short time 
since, and I refused,” she said; “will you shake hands with 
nieF” 

There was a strange light in the dark eyes-— such a strange 
light on the white face that he was startled into doing what 
she asked him. Silently he took her hand and held it for half 
a minute tightly clasped in his own, then he turned away; and 
she went down the cabin stairs. A strange haste came over 
her; her trembling hands could hardly obey her will. 

“ Annie,” she cried, and her maid came quickly. “Give 
me the black cloak and the traveling hood,” she said. 

In two minutes her whole outward appearance was com- 
pletely changed; the beautiful dress was covered by a long 
black cloak; the beautiful bonnet with its rich plumes had 
given place to a black traveling hood. 

“Why, my lady, you have quite disguised yourself,” said 
the maid. 

She looked up eagerly. 

“ Do you think so, Annie? Will the earl know me, do you 
think?” 

“ I am quite sure he will not,’^ said Annie. 

Then the young countess said: 


68 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


I am going on deck now — I will not remain here, Annie. 
The earl is smoking; I will not go to him; but when the boat 
is half way between England and France, give him this letter, 
it contains good news that will please hiin.^’ 

The maid thought it rather strange; but there is no account- 
ing for lovers. She took the letter, and her mistress passed 
on. She went up the steps and found herself on the crowded 
deck. No one noticed her; each was intent on his or her 
own business. Looking forward she , saw her husband at the 
end of the boat; her eyes rested on him for some minutes, 
then she turned away, her eyes full of hot, bitter tears. A 
man stood at the foot of the stairs. 

I want to go on shore,’"’ she said. 

“ On shore?” he repeated. 

‘‘ Yes. Am I late? I have been to see some friends off.’’ 

She slipped some money in his hand. In a few minutes she 
was walking rapidly down the pier, never stopping to look be- 
hind, never pausing for one moment. She went back to the 
railway station, where a train was just starting. 

Where is that train going to?” she asked. 

“ To Liverpool,” was the reply. 

Without loss of time she hastened to the ticket office, pur- 
chased a ticket, and in less than ten minutes after she had left 
the steamer she was on her road to Liverpool. Then she 
flung herself back in the carriage and wept as only women 
weep once in life. 

‘‘ I am safe,” she said to herself, safe and dead to him.” 

Meanwhile the “ British Queen ” went gayly on her course. 
The sky was clear, the sea was calm. Lord Dunhaven’s cigars 
were excellent, and he enjoyed them. He felt happier than 
he had been for some time. His worldly prospects were brill- 
iant, and he believed it quite possible that in time he might 
like his young wife very much, even if he did not love her. 
She bad piqued and perplexed him; she had far more charac- 
ter than he had imagined. He must try to understand her, 
for, unless he was mistaken, there was plenty of spirit as well 
as character. He smiled as he remembered how proudly she 
had drawn herself from him. 


you to me,” she said, “ be- 


There can be no kiss from 
cause you do not love me. ” 

The words both piqued and pleased him. He looked down 
the deck to see if she had left the cabin, but there was no sign 
of her. He fancied, perhaps, the sea had made her ill, and 
quietly took another cigar. Then in ten minutes more the 
British Queen ” was safe in the Calais harbor. He went to 


A THORIT 11^ HER HEART. 


69 


the cabin stairs but did not see his wife; he went down, but 
she was not there. He blamed himself, believing that she was 
among the crowd on deck. He saw Annie was also looking 
about. 

“ Annie, he said, “ where is your mistress? Tell her she 
will be left behind. 

The pretty maid looked at him in distress. 

Lady D unhaven — I thought she was with you, my lord. 
I have not seen her. 

“I brought her to the cabin, he said, ‘‘before the boat 
started. 

“ She left it again before the boat started,^ ^ said the fright- 
ened girl; “ she changed her hat and cloak, then went on deck 
again. ” 

“ Then she is there now,'^ he said, hastily; “ we must look 
for her.^-’ 

They went, but the deck was rapidly clearing; there was no 
sign of the young countess. Suddenly Annie remembered 
that she had not given him the letter; she held it out to him. 

“ My lord,^^ she says, “ I beg your pardon. My lady asked 
me to give you this and I forgot. 

This. What is this? He holds out his hand. She gives 
him a letter. 

“ What is this?^^ he cried. 

“ Indeed I do not know,^^ said the girl; “ but my lady gave 
it to me, and she told me when the boat was half-way between 
England and France I was to give it to you. ” 

Still no idea of the truth reaches him; he half fancies it is 
some forgotten bill; that it should be a letter from her to him 
never occurs to him. He crushes it in his hand, while he re- 
sumes his search for his wife. Where is she? He asks one or 
two, who smile and think he must have gone mad. Eo one 
has fallen overboard; and how could any one be lost on board 
the ‘ British Queen ^? 

In his perplexity he went to' the captain, who also listened 
with a smile. 

“ Lady lost, my lord. Oh, no. That is quite impossible — 
that could never be. Either the lady never came or she has 
gone ashore. 

“ She came, for I took her to the cabin myself, he reitera- 
ted. “ She has not gone ashore, for I have seen every passen- 
ger who has landed. 

The captain looked mystified, and began to think there must, 
after all, be some mystery in it. He went with Lord Hun- 


70 


A THORK IK HER HEART. 


haven to the cabin; he spoke to the maid, when suddenly the 
man who had seen her go up the steps joined the little group. 

‘‘A lady missing, sir?^^ he said to the earl. “Just a 
minute before the vessel started, a lady with a black cloak on 
went on shore. She said she had been to see her friends off. 

Annie came forward quickly. 

“ How was she dressed?’^ she asked. 

“ In a long black cloak and a queer kind of bonnet,’’^ said 
the man; “ her face was very white and her eyes quite wild.'’'’ 

“ That was my lady,^^ said the girl; “ she put on that cloak 
in the cabin. 

The earl looked at the captain, the captain at the earl; then 
the captain said slowly: 

“ This solves the mystery — she went ashore. 

“ That doubles the mystery, said the earl; “ why should 
she go?^^ 

He bethought himself then of the sealed envelope and 
opened it. His handsome face grew pale as he read the first 
words; then, with a courtly bow to the astonished captain, he 
said: 

“ I see — I understand it; it has all been a mistake; the lady 
went ashore; it will be as well to say nothing of this.'’^ 

He turned away; and the captain said to the man: 

“ Well, there has been many and many a queer start on my 
boat, but nothing like this, nothing on earth like this. How- 
ever, donT speak of it, Larkins; no one knows what trouble 
we shall get into if we do.'’-’ 

“ A golden sovereign has bought my silence, said the man 
with a laugh, “ and at that rate, captain, I am willing to share 
a secret every day.'’^ 

He stood on French soil when he read her letter; it was not 
very long, but to the purpose. 

“ Lord Dukhayek,’^ it began, — “ when you receive this 
I shall be far away; I shall be for all time dead to you. Let 
me tell you that on Tuesday, when you were in the drawing- 
room, talking at the open window with Lady Darel, I was sit- 
ting among the rose-trees. Before I had either time to g(X 
away or to warn you, I heard you say — to your shame — it was 
the money you wanted, and not the girl. My lord, I repeat 
your own words, it was to your shame I heard you say also 
that I had nothing in me to win any man^s love. My lord, I 
had learned to love you with all the strength and force of my 
heart. I tell you that because I shall never look upon your 
face again. You have what you want — the money; as for the 


A THORK IN HER HEART. 71. 

girl, your eyes will never rest on her again. She is dead to 
you for all time. I am grateful to you for the kindness you 
once showed me. It is in return for this kindness that I leave 
you the money and set you free. I hope you will waste no 
time in looking for me; to you and yours, so cold, so hard, so 
cruel to me, 1 am dead for evermore. I would rather die by 
any ^torture than inflict my presence on you again. 

“ I hope the money will make you happy. Good-bye for 
ever and evermore. 


CHAPTER XYI. 

LORD DUNHAVEN^S FIRST TROUBLE. 

He read the letter twice over, to be quite sure of its con- 
tents; then he went direct to the telegraph oflflce and sent a 
telegram to Lady Darel. It said: 

‘‘ Join me at the Hotel d^Or, Calais, with the greatest pos- 
sible speed. Say nothing. 

He was quite unable to meet the crisis himself; he felt that 
it required the delicate diseriminafcion of a woman to deal 
with. 

Ho one must know — that was the first necessity; he would, 
not for the whole world that people should have such a joke 
against him; he bit his lips with rage at the fancy of the men 
at his club laughing because his wife had run away from him 
on their wedding-day. Ho matter what it cost, the secret 
must be kept. The next thing was to send a telegram to 
Meurice^s, saying that in consequence of an alteration in 
traveling arrangements the rooms would not be needed. 

Then there was the lady^s-maid and the valet; it seemed to 
him that the best plan was to trust them. He could secure 
their secrecy by a heavy bribe, there was no doubt. 

Then he looked with dismay at the luggage; all the trunks, 
the packing-cases, the. trousseau that had been thought neces- 
sary for the Countess of I) unhaven. Hever was man so be- 
wildered. He was almost ready to curse his fate; never was 
man so utterly perplexed. He went to the Hotel d^Or, and 
tried to collect his thoughts; of one thing he was quite sure, 
he could not bear these chattering servants near him — they 
must go. 

He sent for them both to his room, and he felt inclined to 
mutter something like an oath when he saw a suppressed smile 
lurking round the valet^s mouth. 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


No doubt a maR does look absurd when his wife runs away 
from him, still more absurd when she runs away on the wed- 
ding-day. 

“ I want to speak to you both,^' he said. ‘‘ I want to trust 
you; and I hope that you will keep my trust sacredly. There 
has been some serious misunderstanding with Lady j) unhaven; 
something has happened of which I knew nothing until you, 
Annie, gave me that letter. It may be some little time before 
I see L^y D unhaven gain. If possible. Lady Darel will bring 
her to the Continent to me; the misunderstanding is a grave 
one, but you understand that I do not wish it to be men- 
tioned. 

They told him they quite understood that. Then he con- 
tinued: 

‘‘lam going to Italy at once; and I prefer that you both 
find situations here in Paris at once, so that there may be no 
danger of forgetting, and ever speaking of the matter. 

He offered them a bribe for their secrecy, and so heavy that 
he knew they would never betray him. Annie parted from 
him with tears in her eyes; the valet undertook, before he 
went, to place all the luggage in safety, and to bring his mas- 
ter's portmanteau to the hotel. Still he felt uneasy; they 
might talk, and the men at his club might laugh, then what 
should he do? He tried another offer. . 

“ If you two can both come to me — come, send, or write to 
me in five years ^ time — and swear to me that not even the 
faintest word of this has escaped you, I will double then what 
I have given you now.’’^ 

He felt sure of their secrecy now; there was no fear of his 
being betrayed. Annie assured him that she should go to 
Paris and find a situation there; the valet intended to purchase 
some pretty little hotel or restaurant. No fear that he would 
risk his future by any indiscretion. 

Then he stood alone on the sands. Night had fallen — a 
soft, dark, fragrant night; the stars were shining, and soft 
golden gleams were reflected in the water. Gleams of light 
flickered on the sands; the waves rose and fell with a soft, 
musical sound, the wind stirred them faintly. 

He was quite alone; the four walls of the hotel were horrible 
to him; he could not breathe; he wanted to be alone and think, 
so he walked up and down the yellow sands, and it is no exag- 
geration to say that he would have given all he had to undo 
the past. 

He was naturally tender of heart, and he could not endure 


A THORK IN HER HEART. 73 

to think of all the pain that lonely, desolate heart must have 
suffered. 

How careless both himself and his mother had been. Why 
had they not remembered what a common thing it was for her 
to sit out among the roses. Why had they not, in common 
prudence, remembered the probability of being overheard? 
There could have been no need for the conversation; he re- 
membered it word for word ; he remembered both those un- 
pleasant little speeches; how he had said, to his shame, that it 
was the money not the girl he wanted ; how he had said there 
was nothing in her for any man to love. 

He was impatient of his fate when he spoke in that way, but 
not cruel; he would not have uttered the words for the whole 
world, if he had known that she would overhear them. 

A keen sense of pain came to him — keen regret; he seemed 
to understand what she had suffered; so sensitive, so loving, 
so tender of heart, she must have suffered an intensity of pain 
to make her run away. 

I was the only person, she said, who had ever been kind 
to her; it was strange kindness. ‘/If I am the kindest and 
best friend she had,^^ he thought, “ then Heaven help her.'’^ 

Over and over again the sad sweet music of the waves 
seemed to ring out these words, “I am dead to you all for 
ever and evermore. ” 

Poor child! it was a sad life, taken at its best; and the end 
of it was living death — death to all whom she knew and cared 
for. 

“ I might have been kinder to her,^^ thought the conscience- 
stricken young husband. “ I might have remembered how 
young and friendless she was. I should have been kinder to 
.her but for that accursed will — it imbittered me and soured 
me. 

He remembered the time when she had bent her fair head 
and kissed his hand — the touch seemed there now. Ah, if he 
could but undo that wretched past. He had never cared more 
for or thought more of his young wife than on that night of 
his wedding, when he paced the sands alone, and she was dead 
to him. He would have given much then for the power of 
consoling her, to have taken her in his arms and kissed away 
her tears, to have promised to be kind to her, to make her 
happy, to bring a little sunshine into her life, to talk to her 
about a future brighter than any dreams could ever be. It 
was too late now; all his good inclinations, his good feelings, 
the tardy affections awaking in his heart for her were all too 
late — too late. 


74 


A THOEK IN HER HEART. 


It was surely the most curious position that any man was 
ever placed in. He had the money, it was true; but the 
money seemed nothing to him. It would always be more or 
less of a curse to him, for it was through the broken heart of 
a young girl — she had died to everything that it should be his. 
She would live— ah, God, how would she live— that he might 
be wealthy and fre^. 

How would she live, this helpless girl, this daughter of a 
dead man, whose name he bore, whose honors he had inherited 
— how would she live? She could not work, she could not 
beg. He could not bear the thought. He paced to and fro 
on the yellow sands, the waters rolling to his feet, the golden 
stars shining down on him, the wind whispering round him. 

“ If I have sinned,^’ he thought, ‘‘ I suffer. I would give 
all I have if this could be undone, ^nd a little patience, a little 
kindness on my part might have averted it all.^^ 

He could do nothing until he saw Lady Harel. Wild 
schemes for finding his lost wife came to him, wild ideas of 
offering great rewards for news of her, every possible and 
feasible plan occurred to him. He did not sleep all night, he 
was haunted by the thought of a fair sad young face, the eyes 
drowned in tears. Now that she had gone from him, was 
dead to him, he began to think there was more beauty in that 
face than he had noticed before; he remembered the sweet 
curves of the lips, the beautiful eyes, the wealth of golden 
hair. It was too late now; she had heard him say there was 
nothing in her to win any man’s love. If that pale, sweet face 
were so near him now, under the light of the stars, he should 
feel differently about it, but it was all too late. The waves 
took up the rhythm, the wind repeated it — too late — too late^ 
All night, as he tried to sleep, the words seemed to float over 
him, and they were the saddest he had ever known. He rose 
in the morning ill and depressed; he said to himself that 
he had not believed it possible he could ever care so much 
for any creature living, that he would not have believed that 
anything could have distressed him so much. 

Lady Darel had begun to think of a rest, for it was six 
o’clock, and most of the guests had taken their departure. 
Now, the vision of a recherche little dinner, in quiet, a long, 
luxurious rest on the sofa with a novel had taken possession of 
her. 

The day had been one of complete triumph to her. She had 
•been complimented and congratulated to her heart’s content. 
She was quite delighted and elated with all that she ha.d heard. 
She was delighted too, that the money was her son’s; with his 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


75 


title and position there was no honor to which he might not 
aspire; as for the girl, she was certainly an incumbrance; she 
might improve though, or she might be kept out of the way, 
at any rate; there was little use in wasting thought over her. 

‘‘ Hands, said my lady, to the butler, ‘‘ I shall dine alone 
in m}/ own room to-day, and bring me a small bottle of Madeira 
with the yellow seal. 

She really wanted a little rest and a little comfort. A dainty 
dinner was served to her, the choice old Madeira was uncorked, 
and my lady felt better. A delightful novel, called ‘‘ The 
Morals of Mayfair, lay waiting for her, and Lady Darel gave 
a sigh of complete content. 

She slept and read until the clock struck ten. She began 
to think it was time she rang for her maid, when suddenly 
there was a tremendous peal at the hall-bell. 

‘‘ A telegram, my lady,"’"’ said Hands. 

She opened it quickly, and fell back almost fainting, when 
she read these words — 

‘‘Join me at the Hotel D^Or, at Calais, with the greatest 
possible speed. Say nothing."’^ 

“ In the name of Heaven, what has happened?^' 


CHAPTER XVIL 

CONSCIENCE-STRICKEN. 

It was some time before Lady Darel could recover herself. 
What could it mean? Yet great as her agitation was, she was 
always careful of appearances, always thoughtful of the pro- 
prieties of life. She called up an expression of perfect in- 
difference on her pale face. 

“ That is a sudden summons,'^ ^ she said; “ a friend of mine 
is ill and wants to see me. 

Hands, the butler, by dint of his great experience and 
knowledge, was on some kind of confidential terms with his 
mistress. 

“lam sorry to hear it, my lady, but it is a good thing the 
telegram did not come this morning.-’^ 

“ Find Bradshaw^ s ‘ Railway Guide ^ for me,^^ she said, 
quietly, and he hastened to do her bidding. 

Dear Heaven, what had happened? ' The telegram was 
from her son, had it anything to do with him; was anything 
wrong with him? Was he ill? Yet no, it could not be ill- 


76 A TuoiiiT IK nin HEAnT. 

ness; in that case, he would surely have said so; he merely 
said: 

“Join me with all possible speed/^ 

Surely nothing was wrong over Lady Hilda. If she were ill, 
he would say so; besides which the young girl had been of so 
little consequence in their lives that my lady hardly thought 
her son would send a telegram about her. She puzzled herself 
as to what it could possibly mean, what it could be. 

Her son would not give her this fright for nothing — it must 
be something serious. Then she was so tired, fatigued and 
wearied, how could she go? Hands brought in the railway 
guide. 

“ Can I find the time of the trains for you, my lady?^^ he 
asked. 

She took it from him with her usual stately grace. 

“ No, I thank you,’^ she said. “ I am merely going into 
the country. 

She found that, travel as quickly as she would, that there 
were no means of reaching Calais until the following evening, 
but the night^s respite was no boon; she did not sleep for 
thinking of what had gone wrong. 

“ I shall be absent for two or three days,^^ she said, as she 
was leaving. 

The servants were rather surprised — it was not the way in 
which my lady usually traveled. She took no one to the sta- 
tion with her, she went in a cab and no one knew where she 
had gone. 

^ Lord Dunhaven was at the station to meet her. She did not 
know how great her suspense had been until she saw him there 
alive and well. 

“ My dearest Leonard,^ ^ she said, “ I have had a terrible 
fright. 

“ My dearest mother,^ ^ he answered, “ I have been driven 
almost mad; but we will not talk here or in the streets — we 
may be overheard; we will not speak one word until we reach 
the Hotel D’Or."^ 

When they entered the pretty salon Lady DareTs first words 
were: 

“ Where is Lady Hilda?^^ 

And one look at her son^s agitated face told her where the 
wrong lay. 

“ Sit down, mother, he said, “ that which I have to tell 
you will be a shock to you, as well as to me. Lady Hilda has 
left us forever. She did not come to France, and we shall 
never see her again. 


A THORN- IN HER HEART. 77 

He was right in thinking that it wx>uld be a shock to her; 
her face grew very pale and she trembled. 

“ Oh, my dear Leonard, the disgrace. What shall we do? 
We shall be the laughing-stock of all England. She ran 
away, you say? Why did you not prevent it?'’^ 

“ I could not. Eead this letter, and then you will under- 
stand. 

As she read her eyes filled with tears. 

“ Poor child, she cried. ‘‘ Oh, Leonard, how she has 
suffered.^-’ 

Her first emotion was one of unutterable sorrow and regret, 
her next of anger at the girl who had brought this disgrace 
upon them. 

“ I am sorry she overheard us, Leonard,^^ she said; ‘Mt 
must have pained her very much; but she ought not to have 
left you in this fashion.-’^ 

“ She thinks that I care for nothing but the money, mother, 
and she believes that I shall be happier without her; I am 
sorry, for I really meant to be kind to her, and I am grateful. ” 

“ What can we do?^^ asked my lady. “ After such a wed- 
ding, too — everything so well-arranged, every one so compli- 
mentary. AVe shall be the laughing-stock of all England. I 
never heard of a man^s wife running away on her wedding- 
day. You will never hear the end of it, Leonard. 

“ I shall never hear the beginning of it, mother, if you 
will help me,'’’ he said. “ Why need I — surely you and I can 
keep a secret.” 

“ You and I can, but you forget the servants — you had two 
with you; and only think what a perfect godsend such a piece 
of intelligence must be to them. ” 

The young earl told his mother what he had done, how 
heavily he had bribed them, and how solemnly they had sworn 
secrecy. She looked up in wonder at the sum he named. 

“It was a great deal of money, my dear,” she said, “a 
great deal, but it was well spent.” 

“ I would rather pay double,” he cried, “ than have the 
secret known. It must be kept, mother, and you must help 
me. ” 

“ I will do all I can,” said Lady Darel; “ but it is a terrible 
disappointment to me.” 

“ I shall go to Paris,” • continued Lord D unhaven. “ You 
see what Hilda says, mother, that we need not waste any time 
in looking for her, that she would rather die by any torture 
than live with us again. Still I shall search for her, and to 
you I intrust the search.” 


78 


A THOKN IN HER HEART. 


“ I will do my best to fiud her. I wish I had been kinder 
to her, but she was so strange, so unformed, so different to 
every one else. I was stern with her for her own good; she 
was but a child. 

“We did not understand her, mother, he said, sadly. 
“ She was a self-sacrificing, generous, tender-hearted, sensitive 
girl; but it is of no use wasting time in regret; we have to 
think how to save ourselves from beii^g laughed at. First of 
all I shall go on to Paris, just as thougli ’ thi^ liad not hap- 
pened; you will return to England and look for ner wherever 
you think there is a chance of finding her. I shall stay there 
six months, and with good management, no one will know but 
what my wife is with me. At the end of six months, which 
was the time I intended to take for my wedding-tour, I shall, 
if she be found, return home, and all will be well.^^ 

“ But if I can not find her,^' said Lady Darel. 

He was silent for a few minutes. 

“ If she can not be found, he said, “ there is still no 
reason why the world should know that we are not together. 
At the end of that time you will receive letters from me saying 
that we intend to prolong our tour; you can read them to your 
friends, and still no one need know that she is not with me.^' 

“ I see,^^ said my lady, “ and then?^^ 

He sighed deeply and paused again. 

“ Then, mother, he said, “I see no chance but for me 
to remain abroad for some years at least. I shall not like it, 
but I prefer that to being laughed at. I shall remain abroad 
five or six years; surely we shall have found her or heard 
something of her. 

“ And if not,^' said Lady Darel, “ I like to see my way laid 
straight before me.^^ 

“If not, I must come home and brave it out,^^ he answered, 
but Lady DareFs face brightened. 

“If we can keep the secret five or six years, I shall not de- 
spair of keeping it altogether,^’ she said; “you may safely 
leave it to me then. I shall either say that her health will not 
allow her to return to England, or that she is in a lunatic 
asylum — indeed, I shall not care what I say to gain my ends.” 

“ I am relieved,” said Lord Dunhaven. “ I am glad I sent 
for you, mother; woman’s wit is always quicker than man’s; 
I felt that I could bear anything rather than have the story 
known. What is to be done with the luggage?” 

“ I will take Hilda’s and place it carefully away,” she re- 
plied. “ You go to Paris, and leave all that to me.” ^ , 

He kissed her and thanked her. 


. A THORN- IN HER HEART. ' 79 

\ 

I 

“ I wish we had been kinder to her; but I never dreamed 
that she had so much spirit. I wish we had not pained her 
so deeply. .1 shall hate the money, mother; it would take but 
little to make me swear that I would never touch it.^^ 

“ That would grieve her, if she knew it, and there is no 
sense in such a resolve, Leonard — none at all. 

Lady Darel went back by the evening mail, taking the lug- 
gage all with her; this she stored away in one of the many 
warehouses in which London abounds. She returned, without 
having aroused the least suspicion as to where she had been. 
Then she began a life that could only have been carried on by 
a clever woman. She talked of her son incessantly; she read 
extracts from his letters, always using the word “ we — using 
it as though it meant himself and his wife, so cleverly that, if 
at any moment the whole truth had come out, no person could 
have found her out in the slightest untruth. 

Then, after a time, she dismissed her servants, gave up her 
house, and told .every one she was going to travel, in order to 
see, hot the beauties of the Continent, but of her native land. 
That was but a way of disguising the fact that she intended to 
go in search of her son^s lost wife. 

She went first to Hurst Sea, half hoping, half believing 
that there she should find either herself or some news of her, 
but there was none. On the contrary, news of the wedding 
having reached there, she had many inquiries to answer about 
the young 'countess. She went from one place to another, 
from the sea-side to the country and back again to town. But 
nowhere, and from no source could she glean the least in- 
formation of her. She was indefatigable, but it was quite 
useless. 

So the time passed on. At the end of six months. Lady 
Darel announced to all her friends that her son would pro- 
long his stay on the Continent. At the end of six years, she 
announced that her son was returning to England for a short 
time, but that he would return alone. 


CHAPTEE XVIII. 

AN ALARMING ACCIDENT. 

Lady Hilda Dunhaven threw herself back in the railway 
carriage with the air of one relieved from an intolerable bur- 
den. 

She was alone now — alone forever more; she 'was dead to 
them for all time. She could not collect l\er thoughts, not 


80 


A THOR^r IN’ HER HEART. 


one idea was clear to her except this — that living, she must 
live with a thorn in her heart, and that for all time she was 
dead to him. 

I have done right,^^ she said; “ I could not have remained 
with him— I must have left him; he has all he valued, my 
money, and not myself. I could not have borne his handsome 
indifferent face looking coldly at me — I could not have borne 
it/" 

Her brain whirled, her mind seemed to be one chaos of 
confused thoughts; the only thing clear to her was the keen, 
sharp pain of the thorn which had pierced her sensitive loving 
heart. 

‘‘ Saltpool,"" cried the porters, and the train stopped. 

Then the practical difficulties of her situation rose before 
her. Where.was she to go — what was she to do? Her first 
and most pressing impulse was to hide all traces of her flight; 
she felt sure that both Lady Darel and the earl would make 
every effort to find her, for the sake of appearances, and she 
was resolved never to be found. 

Saltpool is a small junction not forty miles froniDover-f 
she found that a train was starting almost immediately for 
London, and from London she knew how easy it was to go to 
any part of England. She took a ticket for London, and 
when the train stopped there, she walked out of the London 
Bridge Station feeling that she was indeed alone in the world. 

Could it be possible that in the earlier hours of this same 
day, the noblest people in this city had been gathered together 
in her honor? Could this be the same place where with the 
honors due to a young princess, she was married — she who 
stood in the darkening night, more desolate than any of those 
who stood shuddering on the bridges or under the arches? 

“It is a mighty city,"" she said to herself; “ how many 
women sleep to-night under the blue sky, and have, like my- 
self, a thorn in their hearts. 

Where should she go — what should she do? The wide world 
was all before her, what should she choose? It was not so far 
from the station to the bridge; a great longing came over her 
to go there and watch the calm deep river. She — Lady Dun- 
haven, an earl"s daughter, an earl"s wife — she stood there 

“ Where the lamps quiver, 

Far down in the river; 

Houseless and homeless 
She -wandered by night.” 

Women passed her with painted faces and light words on 
their wretched lips; young girls went by with the laughter of 


A THOEi;r IN HER HEART. 


81 


demons coming from their young mouths; men passed her 
with sneers and jeers; she saw none of them. She stood 
watching the deep, calm waters, brightened by the golden 
glow of the lamps; there was peace; it would be but a mo- 
mentary thrill as she fell, a splash in the river, and a long 
sweet rest in the arms of death. 

“ The money would be his own then,^^ she said; “ and I 
should be dead — dead with the thorn in mv heart. 


one loved her, no one cared 



for her; her death would set her husband free; there would 
not be one single creature to say one word of regret; not one 
tear would be shed for her. She clasped her hands with a sud- 
den cry. Why should she, who longed for love, whose heart 
was filled with love — why should she be the most desolate and 
lonely of all creatures? Onlj* Heaven knew the mystery. She 
could not understand it. A heavy hand was laid on her 
shoulder, a gruff but not unkindly voice said: 

‘‘ Now, my good young woman, you really must not stand 
here in this kind of fashion — ^you must not indeed. It looks 
as though you meant to jump over.^"’ 

But the policeman drew back startled when he saw the fair 
young face — he recognized a lady, and with involuntary re- 
spect, touched his helmet. 

“I beg your pardon, miss,^^ he said, “but we are obliged 
to be particular. 

She walked on — she would not go to any hotel to sleep, lest 
by so doing she should leave any traces of her flight — she 
would walk through the streets until morning. As she walked 
up and down the deserted streets, she thought of her young 
husband on Trench soil. 

“ He will not regret me,^^ she thought bitterly; “ he has 
the money, he will ever be pleased that I am out of the way.^^ 

The night was long — the stars shone out brightly, the clear 
sweet air was intermingled no longer with the busy sounds of 
busy men. Morning came, and at six o^clock she was at 
Euston Square. She had not decided where to go — she said 
to herself that fate should decide that for her. A train was in 
the depot, and wherever the train was going, she would go. 

She listened — it was for Eugby, Crewe and Chester. She 
would go to Chester. Once more she purchased a ticket and 
was soon in the old, quaint, pretty town of Chester. Then, 
feeling ill almost unto death, she remembered how long it was. 
since she had either food, wine or ^sleep. She went into a 
coffee-house and asked for a room. She could hardly drag 
her weak, wearied limbs up the stairs, she. could hardly keep 


82 


A. THOllN m HER HEART. 


her tired eyes open until the tea she ordered was brought up 
to her. 

When she had drunk it she fell into the deep sleep of ex- 
haustion. . It was eyening when she awoke; her ideas were much 
clearer, but there was a strange, terrible feeling in her head; 
a red mist seemed to float before her eyes and obscure every- 
thing; a sound like the rushing of waters, filled her ears. 
She thought that perhaps the fresh air would do her good. 
She arose and went down stairs. 

‘‘ I will keep that room,^^ she said, as I shall remain to- 
night. 

Once out in the streets again, she remembered her strange 
head gear, and purchased a plain bonnet and a gray water- 
proof. A longing came over her for the sea. If she could 
but once Walk across the yellow'sands, and sit where the waves 
could ripple to her feet. If she could but once more lose her 
thoughts and her sorrows in the sad, sweet rhythm of the 
waves. 

There was no sea, but there were green meadows, and tall 
green trees; -bright sunny fields, where the birds were singing, 
and the children played. Perhaps the rest and the quiet out 
there might do her good — might take the burning pain and 
heat from her brain — the cruel mist from her eyes. She 
walked quickly through the streets, out to the green' open 
country, where the flowers and trees seemed to be more her 
friends than the men and women in the crowded cities. 

She walked down the high-road, and then a lovely green 
lane charmed, her. She went down, and found some grand 
clover meadows; she crossed those, wondering why the earth 
and sky seemed to meet — why the green world whirled round 
her. Then cagie a long, white, hard, high-road; she went 
down it, little dreaming that she would never repass it. 

The strangest sensations came over her; it never occurred 
to her that she was faint and giddy with long fasting and 
want of sleep; that she was ill from emotion. Strange fan- 
cies came to her, strange voices called her from the trees and 
hedges, strange faces leered at her from the green boughs; 
once or twice she cried aloud, then laughed at herself for her 
own fears; but the laughter died away and the fears grew 
greater. The shadows of evening were beginning to fall, the 
golden light of the sun was fading. 

Her hands burned like fire as she walked along, strange fits 
of depression came over her; she sat down by the hedgerows, 
unable for some minutes to move or stir. She grew worse and 
worse; her brain was on fire with the cruel fever that comes 


A THORK IN HER HEART. 


83 


from exliaustion. If she could but reach some friendly shelter, 
where she could lie down, and be at rest. She walked to the 
middle of the white, hard road; she heard the sound of car- 
riage wheels, but it did not seem to her that she was in any 
danger; that she had better go out of the road; that if she 
remained where she was, she would be run over; it was dusk 
then, in the evening. Owing to a sharp corner, those driving 
did not see her. The next thing was a cloud of dust; the 
quick gallop of horses; a woman^s scream; a low cry, and then 
a moment of unutterable anguish. Lady Hilda Dunhaven was 
lying under the horses^ heels, with a gaping wound in her tem- 
ple, and the gray look of coming death on her face; her hat 
was crushed, and the golden hair streamed on the ground. 

A minute of horrified silence, then a girLs voice cried: 

‘‘It is a woman. We have run over a woman. What 
shall we do?^^ 

There was a great consternation; the coachman jumped 
down from his box, the footman from the back of the carriage; 
one held the horses^ heads, while the other raised the prostrate 
figure. His face grew pale as he looked at her; the great, 
gaping wound and the gray hue of that young face startled 
him. 

“ Is she hurt?” asked the My, quickly. 

“ Very much indeed. I am afraid she is killed,” was the 
answer. 

The lady, who seemed to be quick, and decided in all her 
movements, came hastily from the carriage, and went up to 
Lady Hilda. 

“ Killed,” she repeated. “ I hope not — I hope not. Lay 
her down on the grass, Smithson. ” 

The man laid her on the grass. The lady knelt by her side 
and laid her hand over her heart. 

“ She is not dead,” she said. “ Her heart beats. I will 
tell you what we must do. She must bb placed in the car- 
riage, and we must take her home. ” 

“ Home,” said a sleepy, indolent voice. “ YoudonT mean 
home, my dear. ” 

“ Where should I mean. Do you suppose we can drive her 
to the moon, or leave her lying here? Nothing^ of the kind. 
Most certainly she goes home.” 

“ Well, my dear, do just as you like. There is nothing in 
the world worth troubling about. Take things easy. They 
are sure to come right,” quoth Sir Peter Pitcairn,' who was 
one of the most indolent men of his time. 

“ The poor creature would die, most probably, while you 


84 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


are taking things easy,'^ replied Lady Pitcairn. This comes 
of rapid fcving, Smithson. 

Indeed, my lady/^ said the coachman, ‘‘ I was not driv- 
ing quickly at all, but the young lady stood quite in the middle 
of the road, and did not stir.^^ 

‘‘It looked to me like suicide/^ said the footman, as he 
helped to place the silent figure in the carriage, and during 
the short drive home. Lady Pitcarn was busy in discussing 
the idea. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

“l AM TOUNG, BUT I HAVE SUFFERED."’’ 

Branksome Hall was one of the most important estates 
in Cheshire; the owner, Sir Peter. Pitcairn, ought to have held 
the chief position in the county; as it was, he was too indo- 
lent for anything but the most ordinary and indispensable 
needs of life. He eat and drank industriously; he slept well; 
he enjoyed sitting in the coziest of easy-chairs; but more use- 
ful occupations, he had none. 

“ Take life quietly,” was his chief motto. “ Save yourself 
trouble, whenever you can,” was another. “ Xever do any- 
thing you can help,” was a third. He had a whole string of 
proverbs, all showing the advantages of indolence and the dis- 
advantages of industry. 

Twenty years ago he had been a slender, rather handsome 
man, now he weighed nearly two hundred and fifty pounds, 
and never moved when he could help it. He said to himself 
that he had married a strong-minded woman, and had col- 
lapsed. Those who knew him best said it was a good thing he 
had married as he did. Lady Pitcairn was a woman of busi- 
ness — keen, shrewd, quick, capable of managing an estate — a * 
woman of plain, j^ractical common sense; active, industrious 
and energetic, with something like good-humored contempt 
for her very indolent husband. 

Sir Peter Pitcairn often declared that his wife’s energy would 
be the death of him — that he could not survive it — that he 
never knew peace or rest. 

My lady laughed, and bade him be thankful that he had 
such a wife. If he had been left to himself, he must have 
been ruined. They agreed pretty well on the whole, they 
seldom quarreled, each went his or her own way. Sir Peter 
eat, slept, and rested ; my lady directed the household, man- 
aged the estates, superintended all business, chaperoned her 


A THORN- m HER HEART. 85 

two daughters, and yet found time to visit half the neighbor- 
hood. 

They had two daughters — two beautiful and accomplished 
girls; and every one wondered that such commonplace parents 
should have such beautiful, graceful children. 

The eldest, Anice, was a lovely, graceful blonde, fair as a 
lily, with hair that shone like threads of gold; the youngest, 
Cecile, resembled , her, save that her hair was of a darker 
brown, and her eyes of a hazel hue. They were the belles of 
the country, feted, admired, and eagerly sought after. 

It was to this household, composed of such opposite char- 
acters, that Lady Pitcairn in her kind impulsive activity 
brought Lady Hilda D unhaven. 

“ Such an adventure, my dears, she said to her two daugh- 
ters. “Smithson drove over a young lady on the Hering- 
stone Road; we have brought her home half dead. You must 
none of you go to see her. Let her be taken to the blue room. 
I have sent fof Doctor Borbicon.^’ 

Kindly hands carried the desolate girl to the blue room, and 
laid her down. Lady Pitcairn would not allow her to be 
touched before the doctor came. 

“We might shake the little life left in her away,^^ she said. 
“Let her remain iii perfect quiet until the doctor has seen 
her. I think she is dying. 

So did every one else; but there were many years of joy and 
sorrow yet for the young earPs wife. 

The doctor’s decision was favorable; she had certainly in- 
jured her brain, but he did not fear for her. With great care 
and good nursing she would recover. 

“ Would it be a long illness?” Lady Pitcairn asked. 

“ Yes,” he replied. “It is what I call a Quixotic action, 
bringing her here. Lady Pitcairn. She should have been sent 
to the hospital at Chester.” 

“ I did not think of that,” said my lady. “ I only thought 
that it was my horses that had almost trampled the life out of 
her, and that I must make amends for it. You will call every 
day, doctor, and do your best?” 

“Your ladyship can always rely on me,” said Dr. Borbicon, 
with a low bow. 

“ AYho would have thought that busy, active woman had sO' 
kind a heart?” he fought to himself. 

Sir Peter nodded as he went away. 

“ It is a warm day, doctor; do not ride too fast. ” 

After which characteristic speech, he fell asleep. 

In a large, quiet, lofty room away from the noise of the house. 


86 


A THORN' IN HER HEART. 


she lay unconscious for many hours. Kindly hands had un- 
dressed her and placed her in the pretty white bed. My lady 
stood by the whole time; she enjoyed small details equally with 
great enterprises; it pleased her to examine the traveling- 
dress of gray velvet, the many little recherche articles of dress 
that proclaimed the high-bred lady; yet she could not under- 
stand the common bonnet that h^ been crushed by the horses^ 
heels. 

“ Who can she be?^^ cried my lady. ‘‘ Here is a purse with 
more than a hundred pounds in notes in it. Who can she be? 
and what can have brought a lady to the Heringstone Eoad 
alone in the dusk of the evening? What does she say, Martha?^ ^ 
she added, quickly. 

She was standing with her lady^s-maid near the bedside, 
and suddenly the white lips had opened to murmur some half 
indistinct words. 

“ What does she say?’^ my lady repeated, as the faint feeble 
words came again. 

“ I can not hear distinctly, said the maid; “ but it sounds 
like ‘h thorn in my heart. ^ 

“ A thorn in her heart, poor child! What nonsense! She 
had more likely a wound in her head. She must be delirious. 

“ It is a thorn in my heart, and I am, dead to them for ever- 
more. Oh, mother, ask God to take me home.^^ 

The words were cried out in a tone of keenest pain; a burst 
of passionate tears relieved the burning brain. They did not 
interrupt her; they stood by calm and still until the passion 
of grief had exhausted itself, then Lady Pitcairn went to her 
and said: 

“ Try to keep yourself quiet; you have had a very serious 
accident.'^ 

Lady D unhaven raised her eyes to the shrewd, kindly face 
bending over her. 

“ I do not understand,’^ she said, faintly. 

“ Never mind about understanding,” she replied: ‘‘ drink 
this and go to sleep. You must rest. ” 

She did as she was told, and the long quiet sleep seemed to 
restore her. It was morning when she opened her eyes, and 
the sun was shining in the room. Lady Pitcairn, who was 
deeply interested in her protegee, was by her side again. 

You are better, my dear,” she said. “ You would like to 
know where you are. This is Branksome Hall, my husband’s 
place, and my husband is Sir Peter Pitcairn. I am Lady Pit- 
cairn. Would you like me to send for your friends?” 

The troubled eyes fell before her. 


A THOKK IN HER HEART. 


87 


“ No, I thank you,^^ she said, gently. 

“ But, my dear, they will be anxious about you. You were 
walking by yourself on Heringsfcone Road, when my coachman 
drove over you. You will let me write, at least, to say where 
you are?^^ 

‘‘ I would rather not,^^ she replied. 

And her face grew so troubled, that Lady Pitcairn could 
not continue her questions. Lady Dunhaven said, in a low 
voice: 

“I am very grateful to you for your wonderful kindness; 
but as soon as I can, I must leave you. 

Lady Pitcairn looked wonderingly at her — there was evi- 
dently some mystery, but it could not be anything wrong; that 
fair, sad, girlish face bore the very impress of highest purity. 
One might as well call a lily black as that pure, sweet, sad 
young girl anything but pure and good. A mystery, as Lady 
Pitcairn knew, did not always include guilt For some days 
she said no more about it, for she saw that it troubled her — 
the pale face would flush, and the sweet eyes grow sad under 
those questions. Lady I^tcairn was good to her, and waited 
untib she should be stronger. 

The morning came when she bent once more over her, with 
the same words on her lips. Lady Dunhaven had not grown 
stronger; the days had grown into weeks, and she lay weak 
and helpless; a low fever prostrated her, and Dr. Borbicon 
had told her the truth when he said her malady Was more of 
the mind than the body. Lady Pitcairn thought over the 
words, and came to the conclusion that she had better ask 
some questions. She had made limited inquiries in the neigh- 
borhood, fancying that the young girl must have been on a 
visit to some house in the vicinity. Not a word could she 
hear, and she came again to Lady Dunhaven. 

‘‘ My dear,^^ she said, kindly, you do not improve so rap- 
idly as I wish, and I think it would be better if you would send 
for your friends. 

Then the sad eyes were raised to her face, and the feeble 
voice said: 

Lady Pitcairn, I have no friends in all the wide world. I 
have no friend who has ever done for me one quarter of what 
you have dou^.^^ # 

Lady Pitcairn looked distressed. 

“ It is impossible that you should have no friends. Perhaps 
3mu are not on good terms with them? Tell me — you may 
trust me./^ 

“ My lather died,^^ she replied, “ one year ago, and since 


88 


A THORH IK HER HEART. 


then I have been worse than friendless. I ought to have had 
wealth, but I have lost 

“ Poor child! But who was your father, and what was his 
name?’^ 

A quiver of pain passed over the pale face. 

I can not tell you/^ she replied. “ Dear Lady Pitcairn, 
you have been kind to me, and you will think me ungracious. 
I can not speak to you of my past; I am dead to it; or of my 
fi;iends; I am dead to them. Despair and death were in my 
heart on the day the horses trampled me underfoot, and your 
goodness saved me.^^ 

“ You are too young for either despair or death, said Lady 
Pitcairn. 

“ I am young, but I have suffered, she said, with a quick 
shudder. “ Dear Lady Pitcairn,^' she said, half raising her- 
self, “ will you believe me if I say this: I am of good family; 
against my name there is not one faint whisper. I am worthy 
of your kindness; I have no mystery or guilt to conceal, but I 
have a secret. My name, my story are secrets that will die 
with me; and that secret does not arise from any wrong-doing 
of mine, but from the faults of others. Can you — will you 
take me on my wordr’^ f 

‘‘ She must be a lady,’^ thought the mistress of Branksome. 

She treats me quite as an equal. Aloud she answered: 

I am willing, as you say, to take you on your word, but I 
must have some name to call you.-’^ 

The young Countess of Dunhaven thought for a few min- 
utes, then she answered : 

Call me Miss Dunn; and, dear Lady Pitcairn, I owe the 
gratitude of a life-time to you for your goodness to me.^’ 

So the conversation ended, and the earPs lost wife was 
known by the name of Miss Dunn. 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE RIVAL SISTERS. 

“ Mamma,” said Anice Pitcairn, “ you are very-reserved an 
the subject of your protegee; I should fancy being run over 
was a piece of very good fortune f^ her.^^ ^ 

It was one of Lady Pitcairn^s b(msts that sh* was more lib- 
eral in her views than other people; that she took a keener 
and more comprehensive view of circumstances; that she 
understood life better. 

•It was another fixed principle of hers that no one could de- 


A THOEIT IN' HER HEART. 


89 


ceive her, that she understood character at a ^ance. She 
never pleaded guilty to having made a mistake; she looked 
now at her daughter. 

‘‘ My dear A nice, she said, “ when I am reserved, you 
may be sure there is always a cause for it. I admit that lam 
reseiwed concerning Miss Dunn. I can not tell you her his- 
tory, but I assure you that she is in every way worthy of our 
help and kindness. I may .tell you tfcis much, that she is un- 
happy at home, that she will never return to her friends, and 
that I am resolved to help her. 

“ I am glad to hear it, mamma. I like her face, it is well- 
bred and refined. I suppose it is the old story, some absurd 
love story. What do you mean to do with her?^^ 

‘‘ I shall ask her to remain here, Anice; you and Cecile are 
out so much, that really you have never time to do anything 
for me. I thought of offering her something like twenty 
pounds per annum. She could write my letters, fill up all my 
notes of invitation; she would be useful to you both, for I am 
sure she has most exquisite taste. 

‘‘ I shall be pleased enough, mamma; Cecile is never agree- 
able to me; I may ask twenty times over for any little favor, 
and she never grants it. I shall be glad to have some one 
who is obliging. 

“ My dear child, you pain me when you speak in that tone 
of your sister. I can not imagine what has come between you ; 
you loved each other well enough when you were children. 

“ There is nothing between us, mamma, except Oecile^s 
temper, replied Miss Pitcairn; “ and that grows worse every 
day.^^ 

She spoke hurriedly and her face fiushed burning red as she 
spoke. She had hardly finished the words when her sister en- 
tered the room. 

“You were talking of me, Anice, she said; “ I know by 
your face. What was it, mamma?^^ 

Nothing, Cecile; pray let us have peace. - I have been 
talking of Miss Dunn, the invalid lady; I have been saying 
how glad I should be if she would live with me. She would 
be so useful to me, as you are always out or engaged. 

They stood side by side for some few minutes, these two 
sisters, who had certainly no love for each other in their 
hearts. They were handsome girls, both of them; the eldest, 
Anice, was taller than her sister; they both had graceful, well- 
developed figures, and beautiful faces; they were much alike, * 
yet in many things they differed. Anice was the most brill- 
iantly beautiful, Cecile had the sweetest expression; Anice 


90 


A THOEIT IN HEE HEAftT. 


looked haughty and self-contained, there was immense power 
in her face, power, passion, and strength; Cecile^s face was 
sweeter and weaker; Anice had a tragedy in her face; Cecile 
looked as though made for love. 

There was more of a golden sheen in Cecile^s hair — her eyes 
were blue as the summer heavens; while Anice had eyes that 
reminded one of violets steeped in dew — proud, bright, un- 
daunted eyes; looking Jnto them one felt that whatever she 
willed she would do. brilliant, proud eyes into which tears 
never came; bright with pride that seemed to defy the whole 
world. The red, fresh mouth was beautiful in its proud curves. 
Anice was not one to whom you would appeal for love, kind- 
ness, gentleness, compassion,, or any of the sweeter qualities 
that belong to women by nature. You would like to clasp 
her hand if a sudden or terrible death awaited you, the very 
touch of the cool fingers gave one fresh courage and hope; but 
if you lay dying on your bed, it was Cecile^s sweet hand you 
would long to touch. 

As Lady Pitcairn said, when they were children, the sisters 
had loved each other well. It was Anice who led everything, 
and Cecile who followed her. There was but two years differ- 
ence between them; they had been to the same schools, shared 
the same lessons, the same play; they loved each other with a 
great love; but now it seemed to Lady Pitcairn that all was 
changed. Cecile was always sweet, but Anice had quite altered. 
She seemed to have taken a dislike to her sister, and Lady 
Pitcairn could not imagine why. 

They were the belles of the county, those beautiful sisters; 
they were -both graceful and accomplished — excellent horse- 
women, graceful dancers, well skilled in archery, croquet and 
every art requisite for ladies; no party, ball, or soiree, was 
complete without the Miss Pitcairns. They had lovers by the 
legion, chief of whom wa'g Leofric Donchilde, of Hilde Manor. 
Why they should both have preferred him to any other it was 
impossible to tell. He was young, rich, handsome, gifted, and 
lovable, but why he should win two such hearts was a mystery. 

Both sisters agreed in one respect — they were delighted that 
Miss Dunn was to remain. People made inquiries, but thanks 
to Lady Pitcairn^s tact, there was one answer to all inquiries. 

‘‘ Miss Dunn was a most respectable young lady, who had 
left home in consequence of some little disagreement with her 
friends. 

^ There was no more to be said after that. Lady Pitcairn^s 
name was in itself a tower of strength. Any one she took by 
the hand was as a matter of course right. 


A THORK IN HER HEART. 


91 


So that altogether it was a most fortunate thing for Lady 
Dunhaven that she had been trampled underfoot by SirPeter^s 
horses. Lady^ Pitcairn believed in her, took her by the hand; 
for the future 'there was no fear. 

The day came when La^y Hilda rose from her sick bed, 
so changed, that one would hardly recognize her; she was pale, 
grave, and sad, with the sweetest sadness ever seen on a hu- 
man face. 

She had grown, too, during the slow, terrible fever — she 
was several inches taller. 

‘‘ I am myself and yet another, she said; the Hilda of 
Hurst Sea is dead; it matters little what guise I am under. 

Lady Pitcairn was very kind to her; at first she would not 
allow her to do anything, but insisted that she should by every 
means possible try to regain her strength. Then one by one 
her duties were made clear to her so easily and gently that all 
were pleasure. 

Lady Pitcairn^s kind heart was touched with compassion. 
She never looked at the girl without remembering her own 
expression, “ I have a thorn in my heart. She said to herself 
that if one of her girls were in trouble how grateful she would 
be to the good Samaritan who would help her. Lady Hilda 
was grateful to her. 

“ How different, she thought, ‘‘ my life would have been 
had Lady Darel been one half as kind.^^ 

She literally worshiped the two daughters; it was the first 
time she had ever been brought into contact with young girls 
of her age. She thought them the most beautiful, the most 
prefect of creatures. 

The pride of Anice, the sweetness of Cecile — the strength of 
one, the weakness of the other, were equally dear to her. She 
was some time with them before she knew that, in reality, she 
liked Cecile the best. 

There were times when she was half bewildered by the 
strange words that passed between them; it was impossible, 
she said to herself, that they could do anything but love each 
other, yet surely some of these words meant jealousy. Above 
many other days was one she remembered well, when soiiie 
very exquisite French flowers were sent, and both sisters want- 
ed them. 

They were going to a ball at Fernleigh. Unfortunately, 
there were not flowers enough to form two wreaths. Cecile 
asked about them first. 

“ Mamma,'' she said, “I should like those flowers for the 
Fernleigh ball." 


92 


A THOKN m HEE HEAET. 


You can have them, my dear/^ said that gentle lady. 
“ You will look very nice in them.'’^ 

‘‘ I hope some one else will think so/^ said the young girl, 
with a bright blush. 

She had not left Lady Pitcairn ^s dressing-room many min- 
utes before Anice entered. 

“ Mamma,^^ she said, “ I have been looking over the box and 
the only things that I really care for are the French flowers. 
Of course I can have them?"'’ 

Lady Pitcairn looked up with some little anxiety. 

“ Why did you not speak before?"" she said. “ I have just 
told Cecile that she can have them. "" 

“ Did she say why she wanted them?"" asked Anice,’ quickly. 

“ Yes — for the Fernleigh ball,"" replied Lady Pitcairn. 

If it had been for anything else in the wide world, Anice 
would have yielded cheerfully; her character was too strong 
for any meanness — great crimes would come more easily to 
her than small faults; but the mention of the Fernleigh ball 
was 'too much for her. 

‘‘ Why should Oecile wish to eclipse every one elp, mamma? 
It is not fair that she should have everything she wants. I am 
the eldest, and the right of choosing what I will have belongs 
to me. "" 

Lady Pitcairn looked up in alarm at the heightened voice. 

“ My dear Anice, there is no need for all this excitement, 
surely. I am quite sure that if you tell Cecile you want the 
flowers you can have them. I do not understand you, Anice."" 

Nor was it likely she should or could ever understand the 
tempest of jealousy, of anger, of baffled love and despair that 
^aged in her daughters heart. Lady Pitcairn went away, 
leaving Anice and Lady Hilda together. Lady Hilda looked 
at her with wonder. Her beautiful face flushed; her eyes were 
filled with a proud, angry light. She walked with quick steps 
up and down the room, then stopped suddenly before Lady 
Hilda. 

‘‘Miss Dunn,"" she cried, “has my sister — has mamma 
been saying anything about me? I know it is unlady-like to 
ask the question; it is ill-bred — yes, I know; but tell me — do 
tell me."" 

“ I should not tell you, if I had heard anything,"" she re- 
plied, “ but I may tell you that there has not been one word."" 

“ You think I am' very mean to ask you. You do not know. 
I am not happy. My sister has taken something from me — 
at least, she tries to take it, and if she succeeds, I shall die — 
or, what is worse, go mad. "" 


A THORjq- IN HER HEART. 


93 


Lady Hilda looked up iu wonder at her agitation. 

“lam quite sure that your sister loves you. Miss Pitcairn,” 
she said. 

“ Loves me/’ replied the beautiful woman, with scorn — 
“ loves me ; I should be quite content. Miss Dunn, if my sister 
was satisfied with doviug me. ” 

And Lady Hilda wondered more and more what was wrong 
between the two beautiful sisters. 


CHAPTER XXL 

THE WOMAN OF TWO HEARTS. 

It was a new and pleasant world into which fate or chance 
had thrown Lady Hilda. Quite new to her in many ways; she 
had never been with young girls before; she had never known 
what happy home life meant. All went merrily at Branksome 
Hall under the pleasant guidance of kind-hearted Lady Pit- 
cairn. She was always kind, firm, yet gentle; she praised 
where praise was due; blamed Where blame was needed. Her 
servants said it was a pleasure to work for her. Her friends 
said it was a pleasure to visit her. 

Branksome Hall was one of the best managed estates in Eng- 
land. 

In this pleasant, orderly, gay home life. Lady Hilda was con- 
tent; she had known nothing like it. 

One thing astonished her, and it was the perfect ease and 
familiarity with which Anice and Oecile treated their father. 

)She was filled with wonder at it. In all her life her father 
had never once kissed her; the girls went up to Sir Peter; they 
sat on his knees; theyl;old him all about their admirers; they 
laughed, talked, jested with him; they kissed him whenever the 
impulse to do so seized them. She was never tired of watching 
them; what would life have been like if her father had loved 
her in this same fashion? 

Lady Pitcairn had given her a certain set of duties to per- 
form; they were light, but continual; there had been some lit- 
tle hesitation in her mind at first, as to whether the young 
stranger should be admitted into the heart of their home, 
whether she should form one of their circle. She watched Lady 
Hilda intently for a few days, then her mind was quite at ease 
over it. 

The manners of the young girl were quite as good as those 
of her own daughters, and slie decided that when they were 
aloi^l Miss Dunn should be one of them; that she could please 


94 


A THOKK m HER HEART. 


herself when they had visitors. When Sir Peter heard of the 
new arrangements he opened his eyes for one half moment^ 
and closed them, tired with the unusual exertion. 

“ Do as you like, my dear,^^ he said. Whatever you do is 
right/ ^ 

So long as it did not interfere with him. Sir Peter was will- 
ing for anything. Every one was pleased — it was a relief, for 
the sisters seemed more amiable when she was with them. 

Another thing was that»both sisters had fine soprano voices 
— high, clear and sweet. Neither of them ever cared to sing 
contralto, and Lady Hilda had a superb contralto. They 
liked her to sing with them; so it often happened that when 
visitors came Lady Hilda went into the drawing-room with 
them; she had no fear — no one would be likely to recognize 
her, no one had known Lady Hilcia Dunhaven; and if any 
one should meet her who had seen her before, she was quite 
sure they would not recognize the Countess of Dunhaven. 
She was taller and thinner — her long illness . had changed the 
character of her face, and on the beautiful white brow shone 
a great scarlet scar made by the horsey’s foot. ^ 

So a few weeks passed on, and she began to recover from 
the shock of her sorrow. The words were never out of her 
mind, “ I am sorry to say it is the money and not the girl I 
want.^^ Never for one moment was the sound of them away 
from her ears, or the pain from her heart. And then when 
she came to be quite at home with them, she learned what the 
shadow was which had fallen between the sisers. 

One year ago Leofric Donchilde came to live at Hilde Manor. 
He had succeeded quite suddenly and unexpectedly to the title 
and estate through the death of his cou^^i and his cousin’s two 
sons. Hilde Manor was the next estate to Branksome, and as 
it was only natural, the families residing at eaclr- place had al- 
ways been on the most friendly and intimate terms. 

Love is always a mystery. Miss Anice Pitcairn, beautiful, 
accomplished, wealthy, and graceful, had many admirers; why 
she cared for none of those, and fixed her mind on Sir Leofric, 
no one could tell; she loved him with the sudden, fierce, pas- 
sionate love that to women of her caliber is doom. He ad- 
mired her very much, he thought her beautiful and distin- 
guished, he liked dancing with her, riding with her, talking 
with her, but he was not the. least in love; he did not flirt with 
her, he never made any pretense of being in love with her; but 
treated her as a friend. During this, the first six months of 
his residence at Hilde Manor, he was in the habit of going 
over to Branksome three or four times each week, but * was 


A THOEN IK HEAKT. 


95 


solely for the purpose of consulting Lady Pitcairn; he was a 
stranger in the county, and she knew all about its affairs. Its 
charities, politics, institutions, ways, habits, and fashions were 
all as well known and as familiar to her as the habits and fash- 
ions of her own household. 

Sir Leofric was a perfect stranger, and often perplexed 
about county matters; then he would go over to Branksome, 
and before Lady Pitcairn his difficulties vanished as snow melts 
before the sun. That he ought to subscribe to the county 
hospital; whether it was the custom to lend one of the fields of 
the home farm to the North Stoneshire Cricket Club; a hun- 
dred of such questions required answering, and the young bar- 
onet found himself in the habit of consulting Lady Pitcairn 
almost daily. 

“ You are as good as a mother to me,^^ he would say to the 
kindly active lady, who answered him at times with tears in 
hei^ eyes: 

‘‘ Would to Heaven that I had a son of my own!^^ 

Then, when Sir Leofric had driven over to Branksome, it 
was not possible to let him return without luncheon or dinner. 
At times Anice was just going out for her ride, and he would 
accompany her; a hundred trifles seemed to bring them to- 
gether. She loved him with a passionate love; he only 
thought of her as a beautiful daughter of a kindly mother, and 
an attractive girl who was certainly a friend. He talked to her 
about his estate; of the quaint, picturesque, old Manor House 
and the grand woods surrounding it; of his friends, of the poor 
and the children; his great, chivalrous hope of spending a 
happy life. He talked to her as though she had been a sister, 
and never, even ever so remotely, hinted at anything else. He 
never spoke of her share in his interests, or made, even jest- 
ingly, the least allusion to love; but she, with that mad pas- 
sion buried in her heart, heard in his words the reflection of 
her own thoughts. He, while speaking, often wondered at 
the light that came in her eyes, at the flush that rose in her 
face, at the sudden trembling of the red mouth; but he did 
not understand. An older, wiser, vainer man would have 
seen that the girPs passionate heart had gone out to him, but 
he never dreamed of it. 

It seemed quite natural to him that as Lady Pitcairn was so 
kind to him and the business matters brought them so often 
together, that he should be kind and attentive to her daughter. 
He lost many a morning's shooting for the sake of riding 
with Anice, thinking it a small return for Lady Pitcairn's 
kindness to himself. He thought of Anice always as a good 


06 A THOEK IN HEK HlJAET. 

comrade who took an interest in his interests, and understood 
all his affairs. 

He admired her, thought her beautiful, teased her about 
her admirers, and wondered why she answered him with 
brightened eyes and trembling lips. Their ideas and opinions 
on many points differed, and they enjoyed arguing^- on many 
points they agreed, and enjoyed the discussion. 

Through it all she never dreamed of friendship, but of love; 
while for him, love was a thing of the future, a land be had 
not entered. And during all this time Cecile was away from 
home visiting Lady Pitcairn^s aunt. 

It was Lady Pitcairn who first began to wonder whether 
there was any danger for her daughter in this constant inter- 
course with the young and handsome man. It might, she 
thought, perhaps be as well to warn her, or at least to put her 
on her guard, for Lady Pitcairn saw that Sir Leofric was not 
in love. 

‘‘ Anice,^^ she said to her daughter, one morning, “ are you 
going out with Sir Leofric this morning? 

The beautiful blushing face was turned sligfitly from her, as 
she answered: 

“ He asked me to go, mamma. 

. Lady Pitcairn hardly knew what to say next. No one knew 
better than herself the sensitive pride of her proud daughter; 
she did not care to wound it. 

“ Do you like riding with him?^^ she asked. 

“ Yes, mamma,” was the quiet reply, “ I do like it.-’^ 

“ He is a very nice companion; but I hardly think him a 
marrying man,^ ^ said Lady Pitcairn. 

Anice laughed. She cared little what any one said — the 
only thing was she loved him, loved him with her whole heart 
and soul. They could talk what commonplace they would 
about his marrying — he loved her, and she lavished her whole 
passion of love upon him. A beautiful tender smile played on 
her face. as she thought to herself how little her mother knew. 

Lady Pitcairn hesitated; she did not know what to say. 
Then she continued slowly: 

“ I judge that he is not a marrying man, ^because if he were 
one, Anice, I think he wouli have wanted to marry you.'’’ 

“ Has he said that he does not want to marry me, mamma?’’ 
she asked. 

‘‘ No, my dear, certainly not; but — ” 

The young girl interrupted her mother with a low laugh. 

“ That is but negative evidence,” she said. “ Never mind 
about Sir Leofric marrying. He is very nice as he is. ” 


A THOEK IN SEE HEAEt. 97 

And the tender-hearted mother was afraid to say to her 
daughter: 

“ Take* care that you do not grow attached to him. He does 
not love you.'^ 

Even had she found courage for the words, they were too 
late — the mischief was'^one — the doom of a lifelong love was 
upon her. She thought over her mother ^s words with a smile 
as the yoiing think over the advice of their elders; warning 
and caution did not enter the fairy-land of hope and love 
where she lived, nothing but rose dreams came there, and in 
those dreams, the handsome face was bending over her, the 
musical voice was whispering sweet words to her. 

It made her life. There never was a woman^s love that 
lapped up heart and soul as this love did. The ordinary 
affairs of life were less than nothing to her; to eat, to drink, 
to sleep, to dance, wereLiiothing — nothing mattered except her 
love. 

‘‘ My love, my love,^^ she whispered. , 

And the very words seemed to fill her whole heart with a 
ke*en passion of bliss that was almost pain. 

She would have given her life for him. She would have 
given all she had in the world — for her love was her heaven, 
and he was her idol; and when such love fills the heart of any 
woman let those who love her best pray for her. . 

And all this time Cecile Pitcairn, with eyes blue as heaven, 
made for love, was from home. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

SELF-DECEIVED. 

In the dark after-days Anice Pitcairn looked back to that 
time as one in darkness dreams 't)f a golden light. She was 
happy. She had duped, deceived, blinded herself, but, at 
least, she was happy; and all the wisdom and , knowledge that 
came from time and experience never gave her one gleam of 
such happiness as this. 

In justice to her it must be added that she deceived herself. 
She firmly believed Sir Leofric loved her; if she had known 
the truth, known that he was perfectly indifferent to her, ex- 
cept as a friend, she would have perhaps learned to do battle 
with her love; as it was, it mastered her. She had no hope 
outside it — none. 

During this time while the elder sister^s doom came to her, 

4 


98 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


Oecile was visiting an aunt of Lady Pitcairn^s, from whom they 
had expectations. 

Anice had said but little in her letters about their hew neigh- 
bor Sir Leofric; Lady Pitcairn had not said much more. Oecile 
had no idea that her sister loved the young baronet. She came 
home, and on the very first morning after her return Sir Leo- 
fric came. 

Anice had said but little of him; she could not trust herself 
to speak of him; but when she heard the well-known sound of 
his voice in the hall, .she said : 

“ Oecile, this is Sir Leofric Donchilde, our new neighbor, 
and the next minute he stood bowing before them. 

It is the same old story; so sad and so sweet that the telling 
of it is like setting a poem to music. 

The same tragedy, the same passion that has caused more 
tears, more hate, more murder than all other passions. The 
same cross-purpose and cross-fate that has wrung the hearts of 
men ahd women for all time, and will wring them until the 
end. ' 

Anice Pitcairn had lavished her whole heart and soul, her 
love and life on this man, whose face had never brightened for 
her. She had wooed him, as far as women can woo, with ten- 
der words, with the absolute giving up of her whole life. She 
would have laid down her life for one word from his lips, and 
that one word he had never dreamed of giving her; yet the 
moment liis eyes rested on Oecile’s sweet face, that moment he 
loved her? 

There was very little said. Anice in few words introduced 
them; then she drew Sir Leofric’^ attention to herself; she 
talked about their drives, their dances, their music, intending 
by this to impress upon her sister the fact that Sir Leofric was 
her own especial property; it was useless. 

The next few minutes #ere to the beautiful, passionate 
woman a thrill of burning pain; for Sir Leofric stood by 
Cecile's side and already — oh. Heaven! that "she should see it 
and not die— already there was a look of admiration in his eyes 
as they rested on Oecile that had never been there for herself. 
Her heart almost ceased to beat as she saw it, then she said to 
herself that she was mad; of course he would admire Oecile — 
every one did; but that need not matter to her, it would not 
interfere. And Sir Leofric, looking up suddenly, saw the ex- 
pression of her face, and wondered what it meant. 

“You have deserted me,’’^ Anice said, trying to smile, 
though her lips seemed to have grown white and stili. 


A THOEN IIT HEE HEAET. 


99 


He came to her at once, and talked easily enough. After a 
few minutes he said: 

“How beautiful your sister is; you never told me what a 
lovely face she had. 

“ I did not know that it would interest you,^^ she said. 

“ Of course it would interest me. Her eyes are blue as an 
Italian sky; they are like forget-me-nots. I have always had 
a mania for blue eyes.'^ 

“ I am sorry that mine are brown, ^ she replied. 

“ Are they brown? I do not think so. Let me look at 
them. 

Slowly enough Anice raised those brilliant, beautiful eyes to 
his face. She knew what story they told. She tried to pre- 
vent her whole soul from shining in them, but she could not; 
a whole world of passion lay in those shining depths. He had 
intended to look at the color of her eyes; but when he read 
the story they told, he forgot all about it. He drew back with 
a puzzled look, his face changed, he stood for a few minutes 
quite silent; then the white lids fell over the proud, tender 
eyes. 

“ Are they brown or blue?” she asked. 

He started. 

“ I do not know,” he replied, then tried hard to recover 
himself. “ I have always heard,” he said, “ that it was a 
very dangerous thing to look into the depths of a lady^s eyes. 
I — I almost lost myself.” 

“You have quickly found yourself,” she said, disappointed 
that he did not say more. She saw that he was startled and 
bewildered. “He loves me,” she said to herself, mistaking 
his emotion, while he turned away, thinking in his own heart: 

“ Surely to Heaven, I am mistaken. She can not care for 
me; but those eyes. I wish I had not looked into them.” 

He had been gone some time when Anice suddenly entered 
the morning-room, saw her sister standing by the window 
looking dreamily out on the flowers. 

“ What are you thinking of, Cecile?’^ she asked. 

“ Of our new neighbor. Sir Leofric,” was the reply. 

“ I should -not advise you to waste many thoughts on him,^^ 
said Anice, “ mamma says he is not a marrying man.” 

Cecile laughed as Anice had laughed before her. 

“ That does not matter to me,” she replied. “You did 
not tell me that he was handsome, Anice; why did you not?” 

“ Do you find him handsome?” she asked. 

“ Yes; I have never seen a face I like half so well; Anice, 
why did you not tell me how nice he was?” 


100 


A THORl?’ IN’ HER HEART. 


I do not know, I — but Oecile interrupted her. She went 
up to her, and clasped her fair white arms round her sister^s 
neck. 

“ Anice,^' ^he said, gently, tell me, do you like Sir Led- 
f ric? You seem to have been a great deal with him. Do you 
like him?’^ 

One frank word there, one little admission, one honest hu- 
miliation, and the tragedy of Branksome Hall would never 
have been acted. 

“ Tell me, darling, said the younger sister, in her soft, 
caressing way, “ tell me, do you care about himr^^ 

But Anice was always proud, and never prouder than now, 
when she had her cherished love to hide. 

“Care for him,^^ she said, abruptly. ‘‘What do you 
mean? He is very well in his way — a modern Bayard — and 
we all like him very much. 

“ Is that all, Anice? I — I am so glad. I had begun to 
think that perhaps you were engaged; and yet you would 
surely have told me.^^ ^ 

“ Why are you glad? why should you be either glad or 
sorry?” .asked the elder sister, abruptly. 

“ I do not know,^^ said Oecile, naively, “ why I am glad. I 
can not tell,'^ and she wondered why Anice turned away so 
quickly and said no more. 

A few mornings afterward, Leofric came over with some 
very choice flowers that Lady Pitcairn wanted. The sisters 
were both in the grounds, and as usual, he joined them. 
Anice was reading, Oecile had some lace work; they were sit- 
ting under the shade of a large cedar. 

He joined them quickly, but it was by Oecile- he sat; it was 
Oecile he addressed continually; it was in Oecile ’s face he 
looked; and Anice^s heart grew hot with jealousy. 

Then they walked through the gardens, and stood for some 
minutes in admiration before a late rose-tree full of flowers, a 
rare and beautiful rose that Lady Pitcairn ptized highly, red 
with a certain glow over them. As Sir Leofric stood and looked 
at the flowers he thought how Oecile resembled them, the 
sweet face with its dainty coloring, the golden head rising so 
gracefully from the white neck, and as the thought occurred 
to him he gathered a lovely half-opened rose and gave it to 
her. 

“Your portrait,^' he said, with a low bow; and the dark 
eyes of Anice Pitcairn flashed Are. She had lavished her 
whole life on hir and he had never given her a flower. 


A THOKK IIT HER HEART. 


101 


‘‘ My portrait/^ laughed Cecile; ‘‘ you are a poet. Sir Leo- 
fric.^^ 

“ That is very trite poetry/^ said Anice. 

“ I have never seen anything so much like you. Miss Oecile, 
as that rose,^^ said Sir Leofric. 

He was startled by a little cry from Cecile. 

“ Anice,^^ she said, ‘‘ what is the matter? why are youlookr 
ing at me so?” 

But Anice controlled herself with a marvelous effort. She 
closed her fan and laughed, though the fire of jealousy was 
scorching her very heart. 

Cecile had walked on a few steps in advance; Anice went up 
to Sir Leofric and laid her hand on his arm. 

‘‘ I am jealous,^^ she said, ^with a charming smile; can 
you guess why?’^ 

“ I can not, indeed, for I could , never think you had cause 
for jealousy.” 

“ How long have I known you. Sir Leofric?” she asked. 

“ How long? Six months I should say. Miss Pitcairn,” he 
replied. 

Six months, and only six months; and to her it seemed that 
she had not lived before she knew him. 

Six months, and she loved him with a love that was her 
doom. Alas for the love that lives always. 

‘‘ Six months,” she repeated, ‘‘ and during all that time 
you never gave me a flower. You have only known my sister 
three days, and you gave her a flower with a compliment that 
is like a poem; so— I am jealous.” 

What was he to say? The beautiful face raised to his, the 
love-lit eyes bent on him. The words that rose to his lips 
were, I like your sister best,” but politeness forbade him to 
utter them. 

n/* Your jealousy dresses itself in smiles,” he said. 

The better to hide its tears, perhaps,” she replied. 

He stretched out his hand to gather another rose. 

“ You will let me make amends,” he said. 

By giving me the companion flower to Cecile ^s? No, that 
would make no amends. ” 

‘‘ Then how am I to make it?” he asked, anxiously. 

Does your own heart declare no way?” she asked, and he 
answered, simply: 

‘^No.” • 

“ Then I will pass it by,” she said; but you will own it 
was enough to make me jealous, will you net?” 

“ I never thought of it,” he said. ^ 


102 


A THORN' IN HER HEART. 


Then Oecile joined them, and some time afterward Anice 
heard him singing: 

“ My love hath eyes as blue and clear 
As clefts between the clouds of June.” 

“ That is Oecile/^ she said to herself, as she walked on with 
the bitterness of death in her heart. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

IMPORTANT NEWS. 

Sir Leoeric Donchilde was troubled within himself; he 
was not a vain man nor a flirt; he would never have sullied his 
honor by pretending to love a woman, or playing at winning 
her affections. He was troubled when he thought of Anice. 
He knew perfectly well that he had never in the least degree 
sought her love; but he could not help fearing that she cared 
for him; for himself, he loved Cecile, and wanted to make her 
his wife. Still it was very awkward, and maHe him feel very 
unhappy; he could not make love to Cecile as he longed to do, 
while her sister stood by looking on with jealous eyes. 

It was while affairs were at this juncture that Lady Hilda 
was installed as companion to Lady Pitcairn and her daugh- 
ters. She saw how much the elder sister suffered, but her 
sympathies were with the younger one. Day by day she saw 
the beautiful face of the elder sister grow paler, and darker 
shadows come in her eyes. 

One year ago, and this by-play of lovo and passion would 
have been strange to her — she would not have understood it; 
now it was all plain. She had learned to love, and the pain 
of her love made her feel for others. 

She saw many little scenes that distressed her. Sir Leofric 
had been accustomed to ride with Anice, now Cecile rode also, 
and she saw how Anice watched each act of attention with 
jealous, loving eyes. 

One morning Sir Leofric brought some very beautiful 
grapes; he had always made these offerings of fruit to Anice; 
now he took them first to Cecile, then to the elder girl. He had 
made two pretty little baskets of green leaves and laid the 
purple grapes in them. Lady Hilda watched this little scene 
from the window. He took the first basket to Cecile, who re- 
ceived it with a smile, and declared that she had never seen so 
beautiful a bloom on fruit before. He bent down to whisper 
some sweet words to her, while Anice, watching, grew white 


A THOKK m HER HEART. 


103 


with the sudden pain of jealousy. She would have given 
much to have known what he said. Then, before the smile 
had died from his face, he brought the second little basket to 
her. For her life, she could not repress the jealous anger 
that seemed to burn both heart and brain. 

He held out the little basket, but she did not touch it. 

‘‘ See, Miss Pitcairn,^ ^ he said, ‘‘ I have brought you some 
grapes. I have ‘never seen finer in my life than those at 
Helde. This was the first bunch in the vinery; I brought it 
for you.^^ 

“Not for me,^^ she said, curtly. 

“ Well, no, not for you alone, certainly. Miss Cecile told 
me yesterday that she liked grapes better than any other fruit 
that grew.^' 

“ Then Cecile may have them all; I do not really care about 
them,^^ she said, rejecting the pretty offering. 

“ But you — you like them, 1 know; pray take these. See 
how nicely I have arranged them for you. I shall think you 
are out of friends, as the children say, if you do not accept 
them. 

“ I do not want them — take them to Cecile,^ ^ she said. 

He made no answer, but left her with a bow; and the little 
basket of grapes remained untouched by her side. , He went 
back to Cecile, who looked up at him with a smile. 

“ You are in disgrace, she said, “ that is plainly to be 


seen,^’ 

Anice could not rest. Her own sense told her that no man 
had ever been won yet by angry words or looks; besides which, 
she loved him, and could not bear to hurt him. 

“ My love, my love,’^ she cried to herself; “ if you would 
but love me, or if I could but forget you.-’^ 

She could not rest untff the sunshine of his smile rested on 
her again. 

Every day brought similar scenes. In vain Sir Leofric tried 
to think that he was mistaken, that it was all nonsense, that 
there was nothing in it. He woke to the certainty that Anice 
Pitcairn loved him with all her heart, and was jealous of her 
sister. He was distressed and unhappy over it; others began 
to notice it. No one could see Sir Leofric and Cecile together 
without feeling sure they were lovers; it was no secret, 
although Sir Leofric had never mentioned it. 

Lady Pitcairn saw it; and while she was pleased that her 
younger daughter should marry well, she was distressed over 
her elder. She never owned it, even to herself; and while she 
lived she never mentioned it to any one. She had a certain 


104 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 

conviction that Anice loved him — so the dark clouds of jeal- 
ousy gathered round the happy home where love had once 
reigned — so the dull heavy tragedy came nearer and nearer. 

Lady Hilda did her best to keep peace. Oecile was very 
gentle and patient, yet she was not quite an angel; she was 
but a young girl with some of the faults of girlhood and the 
faults of youth. 

She enjoyed the triumph of winning this -handsome young 
lover; she liked to think she had won that which her sister 
could not win; she would have been more than mortal not to 
have felt and enjoyed her triumph; she did not"t)ften show it; 
as a rule, she was gentle and amiable, but at times there was 
something like a sneer — something like exultation — and then 
An ice ^s passion of anger filled Lady Hilda with dismay. 

It would be better, she thought and hoped, when Sir Leofric . 
had spoken openly of his love, when the engagement was made 
known; then there could be no more jealousy. 

Anice was too true a lady to be jealous of her sister^s be- 
trothed husband, so Lady Hilda reasoned, anjj. thought, while 
the wilder war of passion and jealousy went on. 

It came at last— the blow that had to fall on Anice — the 
triumph that crowned Oecile’s life. Sir Leofric asked her to 
be his wife, and both parents gave their consent. Mother and 
sister hesitated alike before telling Anice. 

“ Mother,^^ said Oecile to Lady Pitcairn, “ I should be the 
happiest girl in the world if I could feel sure that Anice would 
be pleased over my marriage. 

“ Why should she not be pleased?’’ asked Lady Pitcairn, 
her heart heavy with the knowledge of why. 

“ I can not tell; but I have a presentiment. She has been 
strange to me ever since Sir Leofric began to like me; do you 
think she ever cared about him herself, mamma?” 

“ I could not say, my dear; why should she? You may be 
quite happy, Oecile, if that be the only obstacle.” 

But Oecile could not feel so content; the change in her 
sister’s manner had caused her much sorrow. 

“ You tell her, mamma; she will take it much better from 
you than from me.” 

And Oecile, pleased to be relieved of what was a disagreeable 
duty, left her mother to undertake it. 

Lady Pitcairn shrunk from it. It is no easy task to tell an 
angry, unloved woman, that the man she loves wants to marry 
some one else. Lady Pitcairn’s kindly face grew pale, her lips 
trembled, her voice seemed to have lost its usual cheerful 
ring. Suddenly she bethought herself that the best thing 


A THOEN IN HER HEART. 


105 


would be to ask Lady Hilda to accompany her; knowing her 
daughter's pride, she felt sure that nothing could or would 
make her control all emotion so much as the presence of a 
witness. She sent for Lady Hilda to her dressing-room, on 
some pretext, and kept her there; then she rang for her 
daughter, and Anice came into the room with a look of un- 
usual wonder on her face. 

“ You want me, mamma?^^ she said, carelessly. 

Lady Pitcairn looked up from the work in which she pre- 
tended to be jgngrossed. 

Yes; come in, Anice. Close the door, my dear; I feel 
cold this morning. I sent for you to tell you some very pleas- 
ant news. 

Anice looked up at Miss Dunn; her eyes said plainly, “ Do 
you tell me news before a stranger?” but Lady Pitcairn would 
not see the look. Then Anice spoke: 

We are not alone, mamma,” she said, proudly; then Lady 
Pitcairn smiled. 

“ Miss Dunn, unless I am mistaken, knows already,^-’ she 
said. “ I call it pleasant news — it is more than that — it is 
important. Sir Leofric has asked Sir Peter^s consent; he 
wants to marry Oecile. 

There were a few minutes of dead silence; neither of them 
dared to look at her; that silence was more eloquent than any 
words — a painful silence — they could hear the ticking of the 
ormolu clock, the singing of the birds; but no sound came 
from those white locked lips. Lady Pitcairn affected to be 
quite engrossed in her work, but went on talking; it was only 
by a certain hesitation in her voice that Lady Hilda knew how 
agitated she was. 

“ We are much pleased over it,” she continued. I have 
always liked Sir Leofric. If I had chosen from all England, 

I should have chosen him. ” 

Still no sound, nor did the white lips unlock; still Lady Pit- 
cairn feared to look around. 

“ It is always so pleasant to have one^s children settled near 
home,^^ continued the anxious mother. She talked for the 
purpose of giving Anice time to recover herself. “ I feel 
great compassion for those mothers whose daughters seem to 
leave all the old life and old home far behind them, when 
they marry.” 

Then she stopped abruptly, for the terrible silence fright- 
ened her. For the first time since she had begun to speak, 
she turned round and looked at her daughters face. That 
look frightened her. The beautiful proud face had not grown 


106 


A THORK IN' HER HEART. 


white; no white could have been so awful as the changing 
tints, the terrible livid hue, the deadly pain, the torture that 
were shown there. If a sharp slender dagger had been 
plunged into the girl^s heart, it would not have transfixed her 
with sharper pain. 

“ My dear Anice, you do not answer me?^^ said Lady Pit- 
cairn. 

It was no human woe that looked out of those dark eyes; it 
was no human woe that trembled in the low voice as she an- 
swered: 

“ Do I understand you, mamma? Has Sir Leofric asked 
Cecile to be his wife?^^ she said, slowly. 

‘ Yes, and we are all much pleased about it; you will be the 
same, I am sure, Anice. 

“ Does he sav that he loves Cecile, mamma?^^ she continued, 
incredulously, “ loves her?” 

“ Certainly, or why should he ask her to be his wife? As- 
suredly he loves her,^^ replied Lady Pitcairn. 

“ And they are to be married — married, and live near us?” 
she continued. 

“ Yes, I am sure you will agree with me, Anice, that it will 
be very pleasant to have Cecile so near us.^^ 

The pride of Anice saved her in that moment. If Lady 
Hilda had not been present, bitter words would have fallen 
from the trembling lips. The presence of a stranger kept 
them from so falling. 

“ It will be very pleasant,” she said, turning away. 

And Lady Pitcairn, only too thankful that she had been 
spared a scene, did not go after her. 

To Lady Hilda, the pain was like a renewal of her own. It 
seemed to her that she could so well understand this passion 
of love and jealousy; she who had been desolate all her life, 
and who lived now with a thorn in her heart. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

A STRANGE QUESTION. 

Written words are coldly read. We speak of another's 
pain, describe, without realizing it. We read the words, jeal- 
ousy and despair, and there comes to us no keen, sudden, ter- 
rible sense of what they mean. Jealousy is an awful pain. It 
is not only that the brain whirls, the heart burns, all the 
strength leaves the limbs, the power of speech deserts the lips, 
the very voice grows faint and indistinct. It is not that only. 


A TRonK iR heu heabt. 


107 


There is a pain sharper and more bitter than death, unlike all 
other pain, and twice as hard to bear. This pain quivered in 
the heart of Anice Pitcairn when, as she left my lady^s room, 
she met her sister. Angels might have pitied her for the pain 
she felt. 

Cecile looked up at her with a smile', then, coming to her, 
clasped her white arms round her neck and hid her face on 
her sister^s breast. 

Anice,^-^ she said, “ mamma has told you?^^ 

“ Yes, mamma has told me; are you very happy, Cecile 

The girl raised her face, wet with happy tears, bright with 
sweetest blushes. 

‘‘ Happy. Oh, Anice, Leofric loves me. 

A terrible shudder made the elder girl tremble, a terrible 
pain blanched her lips and darkened her eyes. 

“ You are so sure he loves you, Cecile, so sure?^^ 

Yes, he loves me, Anice, was the smiling reply. 

‘'Has he — has he ever kissed you?^^ asked Anice, with a 
curious tremble in her voice. 

Cecile smiled. 

“ Yes, he has kissed me a hundred times, she said. 

“ And he has whispered sweet words to you?^^ 

“ Yes, sweeter than any music on earth could be,^^ she an- 
swered, all unconscious of the fire of jealousy burning in her 
sister^s breast, all unconscious that each answer of hers was a 
sword in her sister^s heart. 

“ He has asked you to be his wife, Cecile?^^ she continued, 
and the light in her eyes might have warned the younger one. 

“ Yes,’^ she answered, “ and I am so happy, Anice. You 
see I love him, too — and — well, I was not quite sure about his 
love before, but now I am.'^^ 

“There is nothing like being sure,^^ said the elder one. 
“ Come with me, Cecile, come and tell me all about it, what 
he said, every word — mind, every word— you must not omit 
one. Tell me how he looked, where it was — all— all you can 
remember. 

“ So I will, Anice; but how hot your hands are — they burn 
me as they touch me. Your breath is hot as flame on my 
face, yet your lips are cold. 

“ Never mind my hands or my lips — come and tell me your 
love story, Cecile,^^ and the younger sister, never dreaming of 
the war of passion in the elder^s heart, walked by her side until 
they came to the western terrace, where the sun was still shin- 
ing on the roses. 

If she had known that each word, each innocent expression 


108 


A THOEN IN HEE HEAET. 


of her own happiness was a death wound to her sister, she 
woidd have been more careful; as it was, all her suspicions 
were lulled, and she told her story. She raised her fair young 
face with a smile on it. 

“ Anice,^^ she said, I am so glad that you are pleased. I 
am so glad. I had some kind of fear that you would be vexed; 
now that I know you are pleased, I have not a cloud in my 
sky. 

So children have smiled as their little feet have trod the 
edge of the precipice, so fair women have smiled with the 
sword ready pointed to their hearts. 

“Why should I be vexed, Cecile?^^ asked Anice. She 
grasped a rose full-blown as she spoke, and full of thorns, yet 
the pain in her heart was so great that she did not feel the 
pricking of the thorns. “ Why should I be vexed, Cecile:^^ 

“ Because — well — I can hardly tell you why. But I feared, 
I fancied that you liked Leo. 

With an iron hand she beat back the terrible fire of anger 
that seemed to consume her. 

“ You thought I liked Leofric, was that it,''Cecile?^^ 

“ Yes. How foolish of me, Anice. I thought so. Leo 
said something to me once that made me think he liked you, 
and that perhaps you had liked him.^^ 

“ What was itr^^ asked Anice. 

They were standing then by the pretty, rippling fountain, 
where tame white doves fluttered their white wings. 

“ Perhaps I ought not to repeat it,^'’ said Cecile; “ but it 
will not matter. Leofric told me that he admired you very 
much, and that, if he had never seen, admired, or loved me, 
he should in time have grown to love you, and have asked you 
to be his wife. 

There were a few minutes of silence, during which the 
western wind blew the dead leaves around, and stirred -the 
surface of the water. 

“ Did he say that asked Anice, slowly — “ that if he had 
never seen you he should have married me?” 

“ Yes, those were his very words; but now he loves me bet- 
ter than all the world, you know, Anice. 

“ Yes, I know. So he would have loved me had he not 
known you. Did he say what he should do if you diedi?” 

• The younger sister started with horror from the elder^s side. 

“ If I what, Anice — if I died? Oh, my dear, people in the 
sunshine of love do not think of death. You startle me. 
Why mention death on such a morning as this? It is like a 
word of ill-omen. How strange you look, Anice. Is it my 


A THORK IK HER HEART. 


109 


fancy? is it the shadows of the boughs, or has your face really 
changed?^ ^ 

‘‘ It is your fancy and the dancing shadows. Now, Cecile, 
tell me what your lover said. ” 

Again the younger girl seemed to lose all fear, and only re- 
member that it was natural to confide in the other. They sat 
down side by side on one of the pretty iron seats. Anice bent 
her sister^s head until it rested on her shoulder. She was 
afraid of what could be read in her own face. 

“ When was it he spoke to you, Cecile?’^ she asked. She 
could not resist this temptation to torture herself. Each word 
would be death to her, still she must know it. A burning 
longing to suffer more seemed to impel her, to urge her. She 
listened for the answer with faint breath and quivering lips. 

“ It was yesterday, down by the lake; we had ^one to look 
at the water-lilies, and we sat on the grass. He told me he 
loved me — ah, so dearly. He took both my hands in his, and 
held them tightly clasped. So — 

“ Ah, great Heaven,^^ sighed Anice, and the younger asked 
what ailed her. 

“ I have hurt my fingers with this sharp thorn, she an- 
swered. “ Go on, Cecile, tell me more.^' 

Then he drew my head down to his breast, and kissed my 
face. He asked me if I would be his wife and I said yes.^^ 

“ His wife — oh. Heaven — his wife.^^ 

The words came from the white lips of Anice like a long 
wail of pain, but Cecile did not notice them, she went on with 
her story: 

He said that no man had ever loved a woman more than 
he loved me; that all my life long he would worship me.^^ 

She stopped suddenly, as a little, low cry came again from 
those white lips, and again she asked: 

What hurts you, Anice?^^ 

“ Nothing,^ ^ was the answer. ‘‘ I am listening, go on, 
Cecile. Was it then he said this about me, that if he had never 
seen you, he should have loved me?" 

“Yes, he was telling me that I was his first love. Only 
think of that, Anice, his first love. He never cared for any 
one before. He talked to me about our home, and how happy 
we should be; but, Anice, you are trembling, I am sure."" 

And Cecile, looking up hastily, saw the dark, troubled ex- 
pression on the beautiful face. 

“ You are tired, Anice,"" she cried. “ How selfish of me 
to talk all about my love and my happiness, while you are so 
tired."" 


110 


A THOBl? IN HIR HEART. 


“You forget,” said Anice, gently, “that it was I who 
asked you/^ 

“ Then I will say no more now. Kiss me, Anice, darling 
sister, and tell me you are glad. ” 

There was another pause, during which the wind blew the 
dead leaves and stirred the sweet water. Then Anice bent 
her head and kissed the fair young face. 

“ Wish me happiness, Anice,^^ she whispered. 

“ I wish you happiness, she repeated, and then they re- 
turned to the house; Cecile went to Lady Pitcairn, Anice went 
to her own room. She met Lady Hilda in the long corridor. 

“ Miss Dunn,^^ she said, “ come and talk to me. I have 
been thinking of many things; tell me, if a man lost that 
which he loved best in death, would he soon love again, do you 
think?’ ^ 

“ What a strange question. I do not know. I should think 
not; it seems to me that there can be but one love in a life.” 

Anice repeated the words after her in a voice that sounded 
like a sob. 

“ Only one love in a life,” she said, “ only one love; oh, 
my God, what is my life?” 

Then she bethought herself that she was speaking impru- 
dently before a stranger. She murmured some half word of 
apology. 

“1 think of strange things,” she said, “and express my 
thoughts at strange times. Miss Dunn, you seem to be quite 
one of ourselves now; tell me, what do you think of this mar- 
riage?” 

A quiver of shame passed over her face even as she asked 
the questioDi; yet she was desperate and must hear what others 
said; Lady Hilda was surprised herself. Anice was usually so 
proud and reserved. She must answer though, for the dark 
eyes were looking eagerly into hers. 

“ I hope it will be a very happy one,”' she replied, promptly. 

The beautiful girl seemed to glow and quiver with restrained 
rage. 

Anice went on : 

“ Tell me, do you know anything of what people call 
love?” 

“ How should I?” said Lady Hilda; “ what love is likely to 
fall to my share?” 

“ Thank God for it,” said Anice, “ thank Him for it. Love 
is a fire that burns always, that even a river of tears can not 
extinguish. Love is a pain that never abates. I would sooner 
stand this moment in a living furnace of fire than bear the 


A THOBK IIT HER HEART. 


Ill 


pain of love that can win no return. Tell me. Miss Dunn, 
from seeing my sister and Sir Leofric together, should you 
have fancied that they loved each other 

“ I have had so little opportunity of iudging,^^ was the 
hesitating reply. 

“ You evade the question. I repeat it: Would you think 
that he cared for her, after seeing them together?^^ 

“ I should. I think there is a great attachment between 
them,^^ she replied. 

Surely it was the sudden fire of insanity that flashed in those 
beautiful eyes. Anice grasped her arms so tightly that the 
finger marks were there for some hours afterward. 

“ Do you know,^’ she cried, “ do you know that he said if 
he had never seen her — seen Cecile — he should have loved me 
- — loved me? Do you hear. Miss Dunn?^^ 

Then again she repented having betrayed herself, and tried 
to withdraw her words. 

“ I only tell you because it seems so strange, she said. 

“ It is not strange,^^ said Lady Hilda. ‘‘ You are more beau- 
tiful than your sister. Every one would admire you, but he 
loves her.^^ 

“ Yes,’' repeated Anice, in a voice that sounded like a low 
wail, ‘‘ he loves her, while I — ” 

But Lady Hilda went away, preferring to hear no more. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

CHOOSIHG THE BRIDAL DRESS. 

Lady Hilda thought much of the tragedy that was pass- 
ing under her eyes. She saw that every one else ignored it, 
that Sir Peter gave no thought to anything but his own rest 
and comfort, that Lady Pitcairn ignored it with a well-bred 
sense of what was refined and proper, though at times Lady 
Hilda could see she was desperately anxious., Cecile was too 
much engrossed in her love and her happiness, no suspicion of 
the truth ever dawned upon her. She, perhaps, thought her 
sister slightly envious, she thought her vexed and imtated over 
trifles; but she never dreamed that Anice loved Sir Leofric 
with a love that was madness. 

They saw the beautiful face change until its bright beauty al- 
most vanished; they saw dark shadows come in the dark eyes, 
the dainty bloom fade from the fair face, the smiles and high 
spirits all die; they saw the restlessness, the irritability, the 


112 


A THORH IK HER HEART. 


nervous fever that came in their jDlace, yet never one of them 
dreamed of danger, or of the madness of love. 

Sir Leofric was the only one who seemed ever to feel the 
least doubt or hesitation; he had seen clearly and perfectly that 
the beautiful woman loved him. Lady Hilda was present the 
first time they met after the engagement was known; she had 
by this time become so thoroughly one of them, that they never 
seemed to remember she was a stranger. She was talking to 
Anice, helping her to choose some colors for grouping flowers, 
when Sir Leofric came in. 

“ Shall I go?^^ she said, quickly, and Anice as quickly an- 
swered, No, stay with me.^^ 

He was so frank and so handsome, so genial and kind, that 
Lady Hilda did not wonder that he should win so much love. 
He came up to them, hat in hand, the sunlight glancing on 
his bonny curls, his frank eyes clear and bright with the light 
of love — the type and model of a young Englishman. 

A flush rose to his face as he held out his hand to Anice, 
while her face grew white and cold as marble. 

Though Lady Hilda Withdrew to some little distance, she 
could not avoid hearing every word that passed between them. 

“ Anice,'^ cried Sir Leofric, “ I have to ask for your con- 
gratulations. Of course you have heard the news?'^ 

“ Of your engagement to Cecile, Sir Leofric — ^yes, I have 
heard it. 

“ Let me have your good wishes, he said, “ Hencefor- 
ward we shall be sister and brother. Wish me happiness, 
Anice. 

There was something anxious in his voice and manner. 
Lady Hilda saw it plainly, just as she saw the constraint in 
Miss Pitcairn. 

“ Certainly, I wish you happiness. Sir Leofric,^ ^ she an-* 
swered, but the voice was cold as the lips it came from. 

He bent his handsome head over the white hand he held. 

“Your happiness shall always be very dear to me,^’ he 
said; “ you must try to think that you are gaining a brother, 
not losing a sister. 

“ I wilWemember,^^ she said. “ You will And Cecile in the 
drawing-room with mamma. 

“ You are in a great hurry to dismiss me,^^ he said, laugh- 
ingly. “Ido not want Cecile just this moment — I want to talk 
to you, to assure you how much in the midst of my own hap- 
piness I think of yours. Perhaps what I have said would come 
with better grace from Cecile than from me. I v/ant to tell 


A THORN^ IN’ HER HEART. 


113 


you how we both hope that you will make our home your 
home, just as though it belonged to you 

You are very kind,^" she said; but he had made a mistake 
if he thought that kind words from him would be useful to 
her — far from doing her good, they did her harm; they only 
made her love him more. He did not feel quite happy about 
her — ^he saw traces of pain in her face, he saw the shadows in 
her eyes, and he lingered by her, trying to drive them away. 
Instead of that they grew deeper. She said again, “You had 
better go to Oecile, Sir Leofric; she will wonder where you 
are.-’^ 

Her eyes lingered on him as he went away. 

“ He loves me a little,^^ she said to herself, “ and if he had 
never seen Oecile, he would have loved me instead — he would 
have asked me to marry him. 

The most fatal thing that could have happened had been 
that she should have heard those words — they were never out 
of her mind. She thought over them, brooded over them, she 
made them of a thousand times more consequence than they 
really were. 

“He would have loved her had he never seen Oecile. 
Those words were the very groundwork of the tragedy at 
Branksome Hall. Her mind rested on them. Meanwhile the 
preparations for the marriage went on gayly — it was not to 
take place until the following spring. Lady Pitcairn had de- 
cided that it should be a wedding that should be remembered. 
It was the first in the family, and it should be magnificent. 
She had ordered a most elaborate trousseau, Branksome 
Park wore an air of preparation and gayety somewhat unusual 
even in that lively household. That was the outer life — gay, 
bright hopes and anticipations, cheerfulness that seemed to 
increase as the hours rolled on, while the dark tragedy under- 
lying all this increased in intensity as thj^mad, wild love in- 
creased in force. 

Lady Hilda saw so much; her room was not very far from 
Miss Pitcairn^s, and in the dead silence of the night it was no 
unusual thing for her to hear the terrible, deep-drawn sobs, 
the passionate, stifled cries; more than once, alarmed by their 
passionate despair, she had gone to the door and called, 
“ Anice. There had been a few minutes of profound silence, 
then Anice, in a voice quite calmed and under control, would 
ask who was there. 

“ I thought you were not well,^^ Lady Hilda would stam- 
mer; “ may I come in, can I do anything for you?’^ 

Ho; she was well; she wanted nothing. So night after 


114 


A THORIT IH HER HEART. 


night, until Lady Hilda gave up going, finding it useless. She 
had the greatest sympathy for this beautiful woman, who suf- 
fered so much because she loved so well. To the earTs young 
daughter, whose experience had been so cruel, it seemed that 
all love was unhappy; she knew what her own pain was; she 
could imagine what it would be if, in addition to not being 
loved, her husband had loved some one else. 

I could not have borne it,^^ she said to herself. ‘‘ I have 
lived with a thorn in my heart, but that would have been a 
sharp sword. 

So the days wore on, the flowers died away, the birds went 
away to summer climes; the bright summer, the golden autumn 
died, and the winter came. 

They were altogether in the pretty morning-room at 
Branksome Park when a parcel of patterns came for Cecile. 
Lady Pitcairn and Lady Hilda were busily engaged in sending 
out notes of invitation for a ball, which Sir Peter always in- 
sisted should be given on his wife’s birthday. Cecile and Sir 
Leofric were malnng some faint pretense of sketching. Anice 
sat with an open book in her hands, pretending to read, but 
in reality busily engaged in watching the lovers. A parcel came 
for Cecile, and when it was opened, to her great delight, it 
was found to contain patterns for her wedding-dress. 

It was pleasant to see her fair face flush, and her happy eyes 
brighten as she unfastened it. 

“ Now, Leofric,” she cried, “ you must not look, it will not 
be fair — will it, mamma? You must not see them.” 

No one in the world has such a right to see and hear as I 
have,” he replied, laughingly. Let me help you choose, 
Cecile. I know just the sort of dress that would suit you; it 
must be fair and white, like yourself; a lily dress; it should 
have a dash of gold in it to match the sheen of your golden 
hair; it should ha^a rose leaf in it somewhere just as your 
cheeks and lips have. It should be one sweet, bright, har- 
monious whole, just as you are. Whatever your dress may 
be, Cecile, if it be your wedding-dress, it will be the most beau- 
tiful fabric in all the world to me.” 

He stopped suddenly, for the book which Anice held in her 
hands fell with a sudden crash to the ground. Sir Leofric 
hastened to pick it up. He did not notice the white face or 
the trembling hands, but went back at once to the patterns — 
they were so beautiful. 

“ Mamma, Anice, Miss Dunn,” cried happy Cecile, come 
and help me choose.” 

They all gathered round. There was a white damask, thick 


A THORK IN HER HEART. 115 

\ and costly; a fine, soft satin; white silks, pure as snow; the 
most valuable and beautiful tissues. 

“ I do not know which to choose/^ said Cecile. Mamma, 
you choose for me?^’ 

Let me decide,^ ^ said Sir Leofric. This is most like 
you.^^ 

He held up a beautiful white brocade, on which the white 
flowers seemed to have been thrown. 

Sir Leofric is right, said Lady Pitcairn, “ that is by far 
the most beautiful dress. 

So it was decided; and Anice, who had not spoken, went 
back to her chair. Ho one but Lady Hilda had seen how pale 
she had grown; no one else noted the darkling eyes, the 
quivering lips. Suddenly she rose again; she could bear it no 
longer. 

‘‘ You will not want me, Cecile, now that the important de- 
cision is made.^^ 

She passed out through the long French windows to the 
grounds, while Cecile answered only by a smile. 

‘Ho one missed her; Lady Pitcairn looked up from her notes 
to say: 

“ Anice, it is cold, do not go out without a hat,’^ but Anice 
did not hear her. 

She could not feel the chill of the cold; her heart was on 
fire: the lovers resufned their occupation, only Lady Hilda 
understood or thought of the desolate heart gone from among 
them. 

She had gone where she should be quite alone, where sKfe 
could, cry out her passionate sorrow and angry jealousy without 
fear; she walked up and down between the ilex boughs, crying 
to herself how she loved him, and how surely her love would 
be her death. 

Love, anger, jealousy, despair, all massed together in that 
miserable soul, and the only thought which brought her com- 
fort was this — that if he h^ not seen Cecile he would have 
loved her. 

She never thought of praying Heaven to help her in the 
hour of bitter^emptation and black despair; n'b prayer rose 
from her lips to the Great White Throne; she went on her 
own way and its end was death. 


116 


A THOElf IN HEll HEART. 


CHAPTER XXVL 

THE VOICE OF THE TEMPTER. 

To be jealous is to be angry with God and man; to spread a 
funeral pall over the blue sky and the fair earth; to feed a 
fire that burns the heart away; to live, but live in death. 
Jealousy is more bitter than death, it is strong as hell, and in- 
cites man to quicker and more dreadful deeds than any other 
passion. 

Anice Pitcairn gave herself up to it; she never tried in the 
least degree to restrain it; she asked no help from Heaven, no 
counsel from those on earth, she let her soul drift down the 
tide of passion, and stretched out no hand for help. If she 
had been wise she would have avoided Sir Leofric; she would 
have absented herself during his visits; she would not have 
allowed her thoughts to rest on him, her mind to brood over 
him. 

Instead of that, although every word she spoke to her sister 
was torture to her, she could not restrain from listening, 
although every loving gesture; every tender whisper was death 
to her, she watched them; she fed her own hate; she gave up 
her whole soul to the tormentor. 

“ Anice, said Lady Pitcairn, one morning, my dear, you 
must have change of air. You are looking very ill. You are 
losing your beauty. 

“ I am losing my life,^^ said the girl to herself, but she 
made no answer. 

She looked at her own face when she went to her mirror. 
It was changed — ;the bright, proud beauty was gone; there was 
the trace of all-consuming passion, the eyes told of' many 
watches, the mouth of long, bitter pain; yet she had neither 
the self-restraint nor control to trample her-,passion under her 
feet. 

There were times when Lady Hilda, who s^ more of her 
than any one else, felt quite frightened, when she wondered 
hovV it would end — when she wondered still more that the other 
members of the household did not see the dangers she saw. 
She wondered why that altered face and changed manner did 
not attract more attention. Evil or death must come of it; 
she felt assured. 

Christmas was drawing near, and Lady Hilda saw what no 
one else saw — that the mind of the beautiful, passionate 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 117 

woman who loved so well and so unhappily, was fast losing 
its strength, and still no one perceived the coming shadow. 

It was a bitter winter; the snow began early, the frosts were 
continual; such a glorious time for skating had not been for 
years. Sir Leofric enjoyed skating, and taught the sisters un- 
til they were as perfect in the art as himself. In the park at 
Branksome there was a large, beautiful sheet of water, a de- 
light of every one who saw it, clear, deep, with water-lilies 
growing on its surface, with graceful reeds round its banks, 
with willow trees whose branches dipped in the clear stream; 
in the summer pretty pleasure boats skimmed the water:* Both 
sisters could row, and enjoyed during the warm summer days 
the cool shade under the trees that shadowed the water. It 
had a strange name, this broad, clear, deep pool — it was called 
‘‘ Ladydeep Pool.^^ Why it had that name no one seemed 
to know. Ladydeep Pool during this winter, was one hard, 
beautiful piece of thick, white ice; bright, shining, hard as 
asphalt, it was beautiful to look on. 

The bright cleflar bracing winter mornings were made for 
out-of-door exercise. Sir Leofric would declare. Soon after 
breakfast was finished, his handsome kindly face would come 
like a warm sunbeam into that tragedy-laden atmosphere. 
Lady Pitcairn always knew what he wanted. The morning 
was so fine, the ladies must try skating around the Ladydeep 
Pool. Lady Pitcairn, always kind and considerate, would in- 
sist on'Miss Dunnes going also, and Lady Hilda walked around 
the banks watching the skaters, wondering why Sir Leofric 
could not read the pain in one sister ^s face as well as he could 
read love in the other^s. 

“ There never has been such a year for skating,^^ Cecile 
cried, one morning as they left Ladydeep Pool. 

Lady Hilda saw Sir Leofric take her hand, while he said: 

“ There never was such a year for love, my darling.'^ 

The girl laughed in her happy fashion, as she looked at her 
lover. 

“Has love made the skies cold and the ice" thick she 
asked. 

“ No,^^ he answered; “ but love has brightened everything 
for us so entirely that we see nothing but perfection. I did 
not know, Oecile, I never dreamed, that life could be so beauti- 
ful as I find it now. I look at it through your eyes.-’^ 

They did not see that Anice was looking at them, every 
word a dagger in her heart. If they had seen her, the wild 
glance of those eyes must have warned them. She was stand- 


118 


A m nm hiabt. 


ing on tlie very edge of the pool looking at it. She said to 
herself: 

“ She ought to be lying there under the ice — dead; for he 
would have loved me if he had never seen her.^^ 

She walked back to the house by Lady Hilda^s side, that 
one thought burning its way through heart and brain. If 
Cecile, her fair-haired sister, lay under the ice dead, he in all 
probability would marry her. Only God knows how that 
thought haunted and maddened her. 

Under the ice, dead — under the cold white ice — dead, silent, 
out of the way, and Leofric free to love her. 

There were times when the very fire of the words maddened 
her, and she cried aloud: “ Oh, Heaven, take that thought 
from me. Let me forget the words. Yet, sleeping, they 
seemed to float over her pillow; waking, they were ever in her 
ears. “ Under the ice, silent and dead — Leofric free to marry 
her.’^ 

She never doubted but that he would marry her; her mind 
was so warped by continual brooding over the jealous pain, that 
it never occurred to her to doubt that fact. She never realized 
what the death of her sister would be; she forgot everything 
but that if Sir Leofric were free, he would marry her. 

One morning, it was nearly the end of January then — Sir 
Leofric went over to Branksome Park earlier than usual. Lady 
Pitcairn was tired; had not come down to breakfast. Sir Peter, 
after partaking amply of every recherche dish on the table, had 
retired to his study, ostensibly to read the papers, in reality 
to sleep; Anice and Lady Hilda were busy over some point 
lace — Cecile had laughingly declined to join them. 

‘‘ It will be quite useless for me even to pretend to work,’’ 
she said; ‘‘ Sir Leofric will soon be here; he does not like me 
to work while he is talking to me.” 

Sir Leofric came soon afterward. Lady Hilda saw how 
Anice trembled while the lovers greeted each other; she was 
saying over and over again to herself, the words that to her had 
become a formula. 

“If she were lying dead under thg ice, he would be free.” 

“ I have ridden over earlier than usual, and more quickly,” 
said Sir Leofric, “ I have to go to London to-night.” 

“ To London,” repeated Cecile; “ why? for what?” 

“ On business, my darling; the deeds are drawn out, and 
the solicitors are waiting to see me; all kinds of settlements 
•and business for my sweet Cecile.” 

The fair young face flushed slightly as Cecile hid it on her 
lover’s breast. 


A THOKlSr IN HER HEART* 


119 


That is the last of the business, sweet Cecile,^^ he said. 
“ When the deeds are signed, every preparation for our mar- 
riage is complete. 

“ How long shall you stay away?^^ asked the girl, clinging 
to her lover; she hardly knew why. 

“ I shall return to-morrow evening,^^ he said. “ I could 
not stay away longer even if I tried ; forty-eight hours without 
seeing you would be unendurable. Cecile, come with me to Sir 
Peter^s study, I want to see him.-^^ 

They went away together; and it was some time before Sir 
Leofric returned; then he was alone; he had left Cecile with 
her father. 

“ I have remained too long,^’ he said hurriedly, I ought 
to have been back to the Helde by noon. Good-bye, Miss 
Dunn. 

He held out his hand in kindly greeting t(f Lady Hilda. 

‘‘Anice,^^ he said; ‘‘I leave my darling in your care. I 
shall be here again to-morrow evening? You will be very 
kind to her, Anice. She does not like my going, but that is 
only natural. 

A strange glitter came into the dark eyes, a strange smile 
curled the red lip. 

“ 1 will be kind to her, Leofric,^"’ she said. 

“ Take her out; do not let her stop in-doors, he continued, 
as they walked away together to the door. “ Oh, Anice, 
there is one thing I must not forget; if you go to Ladydeep 
Pool to skate, pray remember that the part we call Pretty 
Bay is not safe; the ice is thin there and cracking, one of the 
keepers met me this morning and told me. You will warn 
Cecile?^' 

‘‘ Yes, I will warn her,^^ was the quiet reply; “ I will tell 
her that she must not go near Pretty Bay. 

He touched her hand in farewell, and the next minute he 
was gone. Lady Hilda had heard every word. 

“ You heard what Sir Leofric said about skating?^^ Anice 
asked of Lady Hilda; “ the best plan will be for us not to go 
at all. 

There was a furtive glance in her eyes, a strange expression 
in her face, a strange tremor in her voice. 

“ As Sir Leofric is away,^^ she repeated, “ we will not go 
at all. 

Then Lady Hilda dismissed the subject from her mind, and 
failed to notice how all that day Anice watched her with that 
strange look, with the cunning of madness in her eyes, with 
the fell intensity of dbspair, while Lady Hilda, hearing no 


120 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


word either of going out or of skating, did not think of repeat- 
ing the warning she had overheard. 

It seemed to Anice Pitcairn all that day and night, that 
wherever she looked she saw written in letters of fire: 

“ If she lay under the ice dead, he would be free to marry 
you."" 

Mocking faces fioated before her, and each mouth opened 
with those words; mocking voices sounded in her eyes; when, 
tired and exhausted, she lay down to sleep, the faces canie 
nearer to her and laughed in fiendish glee. It was so cold, so 
silent under the ice, and never once did the beautiful miserable 
girl rise and filing herself on her knees praying Heaven to help 
her, and drive all the black temptations away. 

Never once, but when the morning sun shone in her room 
she rose with fell intent, fell purpose in her heart that was to 
be accomplished before that same sunset. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE DAY OF THE TRAGEDY. 

The following morning was bright, cold, and clear. Cecile"s 
first thought on waking was that Leofric would be home that 
day, and her heart grew warm with a sense of delight. He 
had only been absent a few hours, yet she missed him so 
keenly. 

He was to be home to-day. She went down-stairs with a 
bright smile on her face. Anice ^ was alone in the breakfast- 
room — alone, with a strange look on her face, and fire in her 
eyes. She kissed Cecile. 

“ I am glad you are down early,"" she said; “ I wanted to 
see you, Cecile; we were very dull yesterday; let us have some 
little amusement to-day. "" 

“ Leofric is coming home,"" said Cecile, as though nothing 
in the world could matter if he were only coming back. 

Anice threw her arm round her sister. 

‘‘ Come here by the window,"" she said; “ let us talk for a 
few minutes; never mind breakfast until mamma comes down. "" 

Cecile looked at her half in wonder, half in fear. 

“ You seem so strange, Anice; your hands burn me, and 
your face is like marble, so white and cold; you almost fright- 
en me."" 

“ Never mind my face and hands; you always speak of 
them when I want to talk to you; come here, see how beauti- 
ful the morning is. "" 


A THORK IN' ilER HEART. 


121 


They stood side by side at the window; the whole world was 
white, bright and clear; the saddest sight upon it was surely 
the tortured face of Anice Pitcairn. 

“ Cecile/^ she continued, “ let us go out this morning, we 
were dull yesterday; are you willing?^' 

Her eyes burned as she asked the question, her lips trem- 
bled, and the hot breath seemed to die on them. 

“ I am quite willing; I am always willing to do what you 
wish, Anice; I will go out with you.^^ 

The white fingers tightened their clasp on Cecile^s arm, the 
lurid fire in the dark eyes deepened. Anice bent her head 
and whispered: “ Shall we go to Lady deep Pool?^^ The 
flame of her breath burned the fair happy face as it touched it. 

“ Yes, we will go there — but why do you whisper, Anice?^' 

“ I do not want any one to hear me. “ I thought we would 
have this one morning together. 

“ So we will, Anice; but there is no one to hear us.^^ 

“ Walls have ears, they say. I want to be alone with you 
this morning, and not to take that tiresome Miss Dunn with 
us. 

do not wish to take Miss Dunn, Anice; I would far 
rather be with you — we shall not have many more mornings 
alone. Oh, Anice, how tightly you hold my arm. And your 
eyes, they frighten me — it is as though they were on fire.^' 

“ Cecile, you try my patience. What matters my eyes or 
anything else. I am talking to you — listen; 

Cecile stood still, yet something of fear came over her; Anice 
was so strange — so unlike herself. 

‘‘We will amuse ourselves, whispered the hoarse voice; 
“ we will skate, Cecile, this morning, on Ladydeep Pool — are 
you willing?"" 

“ There is nothing I should like better, only it tml seem 
strange without Leofric. "" 

“ He will be here to-morrow. Do come, Cecile. Will you 
promise?"" 

Yes, certainly I promise. I am always willing to do what 
you ask me,"" said Cecile. 

Again the hot breath burned her face, as Anice whispered: 

“ Do not tell Miss Dunn— if she knows, she is sure to go 
with us, and we want to talk. "" 

“ We want to skat^,"" laughed helpless Cecile. “ I will not 
tell her."" 

“ I will carry our skates down to the pool, and we shall 
have a pleasant morningi Do not tell any one, Cecile. "" 

“ No, I will not; but, Anice, I am quite sure you are not 


122 


A THOKK IK HER HEART. 


well, you must really think of yourself — it is not natural that 
your hands should burn like fire while your face is cold as 
death — here is mamma. 

“ Danot tell her, Cecile, what we are going to do, or she will 
find a hundred reasons why we can not go out. 

Cecile laughed and sat down to her breakfast. It was Lady 
Pitcairn who noticed that Anice had nothing on her plate, and 
had not even touched her coffee. She was full of anxious in- 
quiries — Anice must Be ill or overtired — why did she not eat 
or drink? her eyes were too bright, her hands hot, it was time 
she took care of herself. Anice sat and listened the whole 
time her mother spoke; curiously enough between her sen- 
tences, were the words: 

“ Under the ice, cold, silent and dead, then he would be 
free to marry me. 

“lam not satisfied over Anice,^^ said Lady Pitcairn to Sir 
Peter; “ if she does not seem better to-morrow, I shall call in 
a physician. She looks as though she were going to have brain 
fever. 

Sir Peter softly murmured as he composed himself to sleep, 
that it was all nonsense — she was never happy unless she had 
a sensation on hand — that Anice was right enough. 

AVhile Anice went to her room and dressed, she hid the 
two pairs of skates in her shawl, then called to see if Cecile 
were ready. Cecile looked anxiously at her. 

“ Are you quite sure that you ought to go out, Anice?^^ 
she asked. “ Indeed, you do not look fit for it; I can see that 
you tremble, and you look so terribly ill/^ 

“lam right enough,^' said Anice. “ The fresh air will do 
me good — it always does; do not let us waste the morning in 
talkin^B<>^t it. ” 

Cecfi^aid no more; she could hardly explain, even to her- 
self, the fear and presentiment that came over her, the dread 
she had of going out with Anice, the longing to stay at home. 
Still her sister seemed bent on it, and she would not disap- 
point her; she would go on, and then Anice would have no 
cause of complaint. They need not stay out very long and 
Leofric was coming back to-night. 

They went out together; neither Lady Pitcairn nor Sir 
Peter saw them;, they crossed the park and near the pool met 
one of the keepers. Anice turned hastily to her sister. 

“Here is Williams, the keeper, she said. “I wonder if 
he would do an errand for me?'’^ 

“lam sure he will — he is always civil and obliging/^ said 
Cecile. 


A THOEN IK HEE HEAET. 133 

I promised old Mrs. Brown five shillings to-day for her 
rent. I wonder if he would take it?^^ 

‘‘lam quite sure he will; I will ask him if you like. ” 

And Cecile, calling Williams to her, placed the money in his 
hands. 

“ You know old Mrs. Brown,^^ she said^ “ who lives in the 
cottage near the toll-gate; will you take this to her?^^ 

The man bowed and went away. Why did Oecile look after 
him with longing eyes. It seemed to her as though something 
of safety and protection went with him. Yet, what nonsense; 
what h^ she to fear with Anice? 

A little further, and there lay the pool, a mass of glittering 
ice, so dazzling one could hardly look at it. 

“ How beautiful, cried Oecile. “ Look how the sunbeams 
lie on it.^^ 

Walking slowly past them was the gardener who had charge 
of the pool and the boat-house. He touched his cap as the 
ladies passed on. 

“ Oecile, cried Anice suddenly, “ send. Thwaites to the 
house, and tell him to ask for your fur mantle; you look cold. 

“ But I do not want my fur mantle, Anice, said the young 
girl. 

An expression 6f fierce impatience on her sister^s face 
stopped the words on her lips. 

“ Why do you thwart me always, Oecile?” cried Anice. 
“If I evjer wish anything, you contradict me. I say you 
look cold, and you must have your fur mantle. ” 

“ But he will be so long in bringing it; first of all he must 
find Laurette, then she will have to find the mantle; it will be 
more than half an hour before he returns. ” 

“ Never mind,' ^ was the imperious answer, “ do as you wish. 

I promised Leofric to take care of you; do not make me.mis- 
erable by refusing all I wish. ” 

A smile, bright as sunlight, came over the young girFs fair 
face at the mention of that name. Leofric was to return that 
night. She shook off the strange fear that haunted her. 

“ I will do just as you wish, Anice,” she said. 

She went up to 'the old man. 

“ Thwaites,” she said in her gentle voice, “ will you go up 
to the house for me? I want my fur mantle; ask for my maid, 
Laurette, she will give it to you.^^ 

The man touched his hat and went away. Again there 
came to her the same sense of loneliness and want of protec- 
tion. 

“ Are you satisfied, Anice?’^ she asked; “ after all I am not 


124 


A THOEN m HER HEART. 


quite sure whether we have done a wise thing or not; Leofric 
- has always been with us before, and we have sent away the 
only two men who would be useful in case of accident. ' 

A sudden sharp quiver passed over the beautiful white face. 

“ What accident can happen to us?” she asked. 

“ Half a dozen are possible, Anice; the ice might break, we 
might fall — 

“ You are talking nonsense, Cecile; why should these things 
happen to-day? It must be that seeing I want to skate, you 
intend to take away all my pleasure by frightening me.-’' 

Cecile laughed. It did seem absurd to have all these cow- 
ardly ideas; the sun was shining brightly; the sheet of ice 
looked beautiful; the wintry sky was blue, the air clear and 
sweet — what was there to fear? 

‘‘I wonder, Anice, if the ice is quite safe?" she asked. 
“ It seems to me many degrees warmer this morning. ” 

The dark eyes wandered over the leafless trees, then over 
the white lake; then, with all their weird fire deepened, they 
fastened on her sister's face. 

“ It is quite safe, I am sure,” she said; we will go to 
Pretty Bay first, the ice looks most solid there; let me fasten 
your skates, Cecile. ” 

She bent down and fastened them. 

“ You go first," she said; ‘‘ I will follow." 

Yet some impulse, in the midst of her passion and madness, 
came to her and made her stoop, Judas-like, to kiss the fair 
young face. 

‘‘ Go on," she said, I will follow." 

And the slender, graceful figure of the girl glided away with 
the swift free motion of a bird; away to the fatal spot where 
the ice was broken and weak. 


CHAPTEK' XXVIII. 

THE DEATH- SHRIEK. 

The sun shone, the white ice glittered^, robin red-breasts 
winged their way amid the trees, scarlet berries shone from 
the evergreens, the wind stirred the great bare branches, the 
blue sky looked down serene and calm, while the girl's grace- 
ful figure darted away with the lightness and swiftness of a bird. 

Anice stood quite still; only God knew what was in her heart 
— on her face was calm, grim expectation; the beauty had all 
gone from it; woful passion looked out of the dark eyes; the 
white lips were locked in dumb silence. She stood quite calm. 


A THOR]^ IK HER HEART. 


125 


silent and still. How many minutes passed she never knew 
— it might have been hours or days; she took no note of time. 

But suddenly on the clear air rose a terrible cry — only one 
cry, but it seemed to cleave the high heavens and quiver in the 
sunlight. It pierced her like a sharp sword, but she did not 
move — no sound came from her lips, no stir to her limbs. 

She looked across the gittering ice; there was nothing to be 
seen — the bend of the water and a group of trees hid Pretty 
Bay from her sight. Silent and motionless she stood there, 
surely the most terrible sight on God's earth. Then the cry 
came again; fainter this time, and more despairing; it did 
not cleave the sunny air; it did not reach the high heavens, 
but seemed to fall over the waters and die under the ice. For 
the second time, she reeled under ’the shock, then again stood 
motionless — ^no sound, no movement. The wind stirred the 
big bare branches, and the sound roused her. 

With murder in her face, she walked round the pool, look- 
ing with mad frightened eyes at the firm white surface. 

Ah, there — there in the midst of Pretty Bay, the ice was 
broken, and the water appeared above it; and there lay a white 
handkerchief she knew well. The old refrain came to her — 
‘‘ Under the ice, cold and dead; he. will be free to marry me." 

Was she there? Was she dead? Let assurance be doubly 
sure. She stood with murder in her eyes, listening; but no 
further sound came, none. The wind swept over the ice; once 
the water stirred slightly, but the terrible cry that had risen to 
the high heavens was silenced, to be heard no more. 

Then recollection came to her; a sudden shudder seized her, 
and turning from the spot, she flew rather than ran, with a 
cry for help on her lips. 

Help," when she knew that the fair young girl lay dead. 
“ Help," when she knew that she had compassed her death 
as surely as though she had slain her with her own hand. 
‘‘ Help," when she knew that no power on earth could lend her 
aid. 

She flew rather than ran; she reached the grounds where, a 
group of laborers were busy at work; &he seemed to them to 
spring from the earth. 

“Help, help," she cried, as she sunk exhausted on the 
ground near them; “ Oh, f6r Heaven's sake, help. My sister 
was skating on Ladydeep Pool, and has fallen through the ice. 
Help, for Heaven'§ sake." 

They rushed off, leaving her lying there; there was a life 
to be saved, and no time to be lost. 


126 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


“I know where there is a rope/^ cried one; ‘‘Thwaites 
always keeps one in the boat-house. 

They hastened, they worked as hard as men could work. 
In less time than it takes to write it, the rope was fastened 
round one who dived into the water where the ice was broken. 

There was not a sound; the sun shone on bravely, the lovely 
bright .morning had in it no shadow; nature had no sympathy 
with the tragedy enacting before her. 

Three men stood silent on the banks, while the fourth dived 
beneath the ice. 

Once he came to the surface, holding in his hand a cufi of 
brown fur. 

“ I have found this,^^ he gasped, “ but I can not find her. ” 

Anice rose from the spot where they had left her. . 

“ Help,^^ she cried again, as she fiew rather than walked to 
the house. 

Lady Pitcairn came first to meet her; she saw her from the 
drawing-room windows. 

“ What is the matter, Anice?^^ she cried. ‘‘ Great 
heavens, how you terrify me. 

Mamma, send help; Cecile has fallen through the ice on 
Ladydeep Pool. 

There was one cry of startled horror, one moment of dis- 
may, then Lady Pitcairn was herself again. She never for 
a moment dreamed of the worst — it was but a fall, an acci- 
dent; she hastened quickly, ordered blankets, brandy, every- 
thing that could be useful, sent men and women, and then 
went herself. She left Anice lying where she had fallen on 
the drawing-room fioor. 

All help was in vain. The man dived three times before 
he found her, and then, when the beautiful body was laid on 
the bank, all life had fled from it. 

Mother, father, friends, servants, crowded round; it was 
hopeless, she had been dead for some time before she was 
taken from the water. All help was useless, all vain, all un- 
needed; there was nothing to be done but carry the fair dead 
body home, through the sunshine. 

Then they crowded round Anice, who still crouched with 
her wild white face where they had left her. How did it hap- 
pen? 

Clamorous grief, wild -eyed wonder; all asked the same 
question — how did it happen? She sat up,^nd looking uornd 
on them, told the same sad story. It was so sad, so simple. 

They had gone together to skate on the pool, Cecile went 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


127 


first; she, Anice, had helped her on with her skates, so that 
she was ready first, and went on without waiting for her sister. 

“ I saw^ her start, but I did not see which direction she 
took,^^ said Anice, “ ar group of trees quite hid her from my 
sight. She laughed as she went away from me. I put on my 
skates, and I heard no sound that frightened me until — 

“ Until whatr’^ asked Sir Peter. 

‘‘ Until I heard a terrible cry, papa — then I ran forward, 
but I could see nothing; Oecile had disappeared and there was 
a great break in the ice; then I ran, oh, my God, how I ran — 

‘‘But where were the men?^^ cried &r Peter. “Those 
men are her murderers — why were they not there? I told 
Th Waites not to leave the pool, and Williams ought to have 
been near.^^ 

Anice raised her haggard face. 

“ Cecile sent them both away, papa. She sent Williams on 
an errand, and Thwaites to fetch her fur mantle. They will 
both tell you so,^^ she continued, eagerly. 

“ Then,^^ sobbed Sir Peter, “ it was God's will, if the poor 
girl sent away the only people who could have helped her. 
Williams or Thwaites, either would have saved her." 

Then, from out that listening, horror-stricken group came 
Lady Hilda, her face pale and set. She went up to Anice 
and looked at her. 


you give your sister Sir Leofric's warning?" she 



askei 


“ What warning?" said Anice, shrinking from the question- 
ing eyes. 

“ Did you tell her that the part of the pool called Pretty 
Bay was unsafe?" she said. 

“ Yes," replied Anice. “ I did tell her. I said. Do not go 
near Pretty Bay, the ice is broken there." 

“ Did she hear you?" asked Lady Hilda. 

“I should imagine so; she answered me. She said: ‘I 
will be careful, Anice. ' She did not start in the direction of 
Pretty Bay, or I should have noticed it." ^ 

“ Yet she was found in Pretty Bay,"*^aid Lady Hilda. 

“ She must have forgotten what I said, and have gone in 
that direction, after all," said Anice. 

She rose and flung herself in her mother's arms. 

“ Mamma," she cried, “ take that horrible shriek from my 
ears — I can not bear it!" 

Lady Hilda still went on with her questions. 

“ How long had your sister left you before you heard her cry 
for help?" she asked. 


128 


A THOBN IN HER HEART. 


“ Not long— not three minutes. I had only, time to fasten 
one skate. Oh, mamma, do not let them torture me. I could 
not save her; but I did my best, I did my best!^^ 

They moved aside with murmured words of pity as the 
wretched girl fell senseless in her mother^s arms; they carried 
her to her room, where kindly hands tended her, and warm 
tears fell over her. There was nothing more to be done — the 
once bright house was shrouded in grief and mourning, while 
the unhappy parents wept for the fair-haired daughter whose 
life was so abruptly cut short. 

. Words are all weak to tell what passed when evening 
brought Sir Leoffic. He was frantic with grief; he would see 
Anice; it was useless to persuade him — he would see her, and 
hear from her own lips the story of his darling^s death. 

“You are sure you warned her, Anice he repeated a 
hundred times. “ I told you the ice was broken on Pretty 
Bay.” 

“ I did warn her,^^ was the never-failing reply. “ I told 
her not to go near. She said she would be careful. I could 
not do more. I never dreamed she would disregard my cau- 
tion; I can not tell why she went there. 

The false words died on the false lipsi She buried her face 
in her hands, and he, touched by the passionate sobs, did all 
he could to console her. 

“ We are left alone,^^ she cried. “ Oh, Leofric, you must 
love me now, or I shall die too."’^ ^ 

He did not know of what love she spoke, but he took her 
trembling hands in his, and said: 

“ Of course, I will love you always, Anice; I have no one 
else on earth now to love except you, who should have been 
my sister. 

She hid her face, lest he should see the guilty love there; she 
was thinking of a lover ^s love, and he of a brother's affection. 

Was she mad? God, who sees, all things, alone can judge. 
Is not all passion madness? Is not sin or crime madness? 
Who shall say where reason begins and where it ends? Who 
shall pronounce her^judgment? for her sin began when she 
opened her heart for a love she knew could never be hers. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE ACCUSATION. 

The funeral was over; the sullen gloom that follows sud- 
den and terrible death had fallen over Branksome. Neither 


A THORIT TIT HEB HEART. 


129 


wealth nor rank had been powerful enough to evade the usual 
routine. There had been a coroner’s inquest, and the verdict 
unanimously given was accidentally drowned.” The jury 
declared that they could not attach blame to any person, and 
they expressed the deepest sympathy with the young lady who 
had witnessed the terrible accident without being able to help. 
Every paper in England gave an account of the accident, 
every one expressed the deepest sympathy with the parents and 
sister. Shoals of letters of condolence came to Branksome, 
while the spring that should have seen the marriage brought 
the green grass, and white daisies grew on her grave. Sir 
Leofric had gone from his home. He told them he should 
return when the smart of his grief had passed by; but at 
present he could not see them nor endure the place. 

The day came when Anice Pitcairn was able to leave her 
room and take her place once more in her father’s house. For 
many long weeks she had refused to quit her room; she would, 
not have the blinds drawn — she would lie in the darkness and 
silence, none but God knowing what passed in her own heart. 

One morning she sent for Lady Hilda. 

Miss Dunn,” she said, I want to know why you never 
came near me? I have been ill so long, and you have never 
entered my room. ” 

The scene was a dramatic one. Outside lay the golden sun- 
light; stray gleams of gold came through the closed blinds; 
inside, a strange, dreamy darkness seemed to brood. On the 
pretty white bed lay the beautiful woman in whose heart so 
terrible a secret lay buried— the white face, and dark burning 
eyes, the white hands, all showing so plainly in the mystical 
light. Standing by her, calm, stern, and unyielding, was the 
girl who alone in the v/orld suspected the tragedy. 

“Why do you never come near me?” repeated Anice. 
“ Have you no sorrow or compassion for me?” 

“ None,” was the brief reply. 

“ None!” repeated Anice; “ why?” 

Then Lady Hilda went to the door and closed it. She fast- 
ened it carefully, and coming back to Anice, stood over her. 

will tell you,” she said; “ since you ask me for the 
truth, you shall hear it;. I have no sorrow, no pity for you, for 
I believe before Heaven you are guilty of your sister’s death!” 

A low cry came from the white lips. She lay silent then. 
Lady Hilda" watched her keenly— her eyes were bright with 
the fire of indignation, her face with the light of a just and 
righteous wrath. . 

“ I ought to have denounced you at the time,’ ’ she said; I 


130 


A THORH IN HER HEART. 


ought to have said then that I believed you to bo a murderess 
in deed, as I knew you to be one in heart. I ought to have 
cried out that you were guilty, but I did not; I looked at your 
mother^s face," at your father^s gray hair, and I could not. 
But, speaking before Heaven, Anice Pitcairn, I believe you 
caused your sister^s death.’” 

“ You are cruel, wicked, and unjust!” cried Anice. You 
have no proof of what you say. You speak to me in this cruel 
manner, and it is all suspicion — nothing but base, false sus- 
picion. You have no proof. ” 

‘ ‘ I have no proof, except my own strong conviction, and 
my knowledge of the terrible passion that swayed your heart. 
I believe that you have told a false story, that you have de- 
ceived us all, that you never warned your sister, but let her go 
without one word of caution, when you knew that death await- 
ed her. I believe that you delayed, instead of hastening, when 
you heard her cry. May God pardon me if I misjudge you! 
I do not think that I do. ” 

A low, hoarse voice interrupted her: 

“ You are wrong — quite wrong — wjckedly, cruelly wrong — ” 

“ That is as Heaven sees,” said Lady Hilda. 

One of the white, trembling hands clutched at hers. 

‘‘ You are quite wrong,^^ said Anice, “ your words are quite 
false; but promise me you will never repeat them, that you 
will never tell any one what you think; others might suspect 
me if you did, and it is false — all false. My mother was kind 
to you; she brought you home here, and made you one of us. 
Oh, promise me, for my mother^s sake, you will not tell others 
what you think!” 

Lady Hilda stood before her, calm, unmoved, her face full 
of quiet horror. 

“lam not quite sure what I ought to do,” she said. “ I 
am hardly able to decide for myself. It seems to me that my 
duty is clear, that I ought to tell' others my strong suspicions, 
and have them examined. ” 

The white face on the pillow could grow no whiter, but a 
dreadful quiver passed over it. 

“ Suppose you did so. Miss Dunn; only suppose — let us im- 
agine it — supjpose you did so, and those suspicions were found 
to be correct, what then?” 

** What then? The law of God and of man says, a life for 
a life,” s^id Lady Hilda, slowly. 

** A life for a life! Ah, dear Heaven! how many lives have 
I given?” said Anice, with a woful sigh. “ How many 
deaths have d died? Then you, whom my mother rescued 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 131 

from death in the high-roads, you would send me to a felon ^s 
dock, to the scaffold, if you could 

“ I do not say so. I am puzzled as to what I ought to do. ” 
Again the trembling hands grasped her. 

“You can do nothing — you have nothing to do. I am only 
talking for argument’s sake, to show you how wild your no- 
tions are. See to what you expose me if you ever give them 
to others. Promise me you never will — swear to me. Miss 
Dunn, you will not. I shall not rest unless you swear!” 

“ I can not. I am sure I ought to tell some one. I am 
afraid what I think is true.” 

Anice flung herself back on her pillows with a gesture of 
despair. 

“ You will not listen to me,” she said. “ You are bent on 
my destruction, and on your own. If you tell this foolish, 
this wicked story of me, who will believe you? I can bring 
Heaven and earth to prove how false your words are. I can 
swear as sternly as you can. The world will have to judge be- 
tween your word and mine. I say that it will take mine. ” 

“ Truth always prevails,” said Lady Hilda, slowly. 

“ There is no truth in this case to prevail. It is a mere sus- 
picion without proof. I would defy you, dare you to say it 
openly, but that I know some scandal must come of it. Let 
me be innocent as an angel, still there would always be people 
who would remember that I had been accused. Oh, Miss 
Dunn, why should you be my enemy?” 

“ I am not your enemy,” replied Lady Hilda. “ But the 
very morning when you came gasping for breath, I seemed to 
understand your crime, to know what you had done. ” 

“ But I had not done it. I swear to you I had not, indeed. ” 
“ You say so, and I have no proof, nothing but my own 
feeling and conviction; there is one thing quite sure, that I 
should not be believed if I spoke; all speaking is useless, I 
see; but so long as yoii live and I live, I shall always retain in 
my heart that you have lured your sister to her death, as 
surely as though you stabbed her with your own hand. I may 
never bring the charge against you — yet remember there will 
always be one living witness in this world against you.” 

“ You are wrong, quite wrong,” cried Anice. “ Is it not 
enough that I have to bear a great sorrow, but you must add 
to it by bringing this cruel suspicion to me?” . 

“ I will make you no answer,” said Lady Hilda; “ I am 
quite sure that I am right, and I repeat that while you live, 
and I live, I am always a silent protest, a silent witness, against 


132 


A THORK m HER HEART. 


your crime; I can not bring it home to you, so I must be si- 
lent/^ 

The trembling hands tried to grasp hers. 

‘‘ No/^ said Lady Hilda; “ hand of mine can never touch 
yours; circumstances compel me to silence. Perhaps silence is 
most merciful, as it gives you time for repentance; you may 
repent, and by a long, good, useful life, try to make amends 
for your evil deed; but there can be no friendship^ between you 
and me — none, Anice Pitcairn; listen to one word more; I 
should respect you more, if instead of hardening your heart, 
you would own your sin.'’’ 

“ I have no sin to own. Miss Dunn. I cling to you, and 
pray you to keep silence over your suspicion, not because it is 
true, but because 1 know how cruel the world is; and if such 
things are said of me, however false they may be, some one 
will believe them. I ask you solemnly, in the name of God, 
promise me not to mention to any one living what you have 
said to me.” 

Lady Hilda was silent for a few minutes. 

I promise you,’” she said, at length; and., turning from 
the beautiful woman, she quitted the room. 

Days, weeks, and months wore on. Anice recovered her 
health. Lady Pitcairn became more cheerful. Sir Peter re- 
lapsed into his old sleepy state, and Cecile’s grave was covered 
with grass. 

Then Sir Leofric returned. His great grief had changed 
him, then had worn itself away. People tried to console him; 
they told him he must not mourn all his life, that, although 
he had lost his dearest and best, others were left. They said it 
was a duty he owed to himself and his position to marry. 

He believed them, aud his heart turned to Anice. Who so 
near and dear to him as the sister of his dear, dead love? 

The day came when the very desire of her heart was grati- 
fied, and Sir Leofric asked her to be his wife. 

“ I can not give you, Anice, the same fervent love I gave to 
Cecile,” he said; ‘‘ but I will make you very happy.” 

So, for the second time Sir Leofric became engaged. Lady 
Hilda heard the news with surprise that bordered on horror. 
She went to Anice direct. 

‘‘ Is it true,” she said, “ that you are going to marry Sir 
Leofric?” 

“ It is quite true,” was the brief reply. 

‘‘ Tlien it seems to me that the very heavens cry for venge- 
ance. I, for one, Anice Pitcairn, will never stand by to see 


A IK HER HEART. 


133 


you married^ — it would be watching you put the seal upon 
your sin.^^ 


CHAPTER XXX. 

THE DEPARTURE. 

‘‘ You wish to leave Branksome, Miss Dunn?^^ cried Lady 
Pitcairn. “ Are you quite sure you know your own mind?^^ 

For Lady Hilda had resolved to go. It would be far easier, 
she thought, to beg her bread than to remain in this luxur- 
ious home where the spirit of murder lay over the threshold. 

Nothing could shake her conviction — nothing could take 
from her the certainty that Anice Pitcairn had done the most 
foul wrong. 

Of course it was useless to speak — no one would believe her. 
She would be derided as mad or wicked; she had no one 
single proof to give of the truth of her words — nothing, but 
that she read murder in Anice^s face. To speak of it would 
be worse than useless; but she could not stand by in silence 
and see that sin crowned with success. She could not remain 
to see Anice triumph in her wickedne^. She sought Lady 
Pitcairn and told her she must go. 

. The mistress of Branksome looked up from her work in 
wonder. 

“ Go, my dear,^^ she said, in surprise, “ after you have been 
with us three years, and have become one of ourselves 

“ I shall never cease to be grateful, said Lady Hilda, “ but 
I must go.^^ 

“Just as we were preparing for Ameer's marriage — at least 
until that is over,"’"’ said Lady Pitcairn. 

But the girl turned away with a sick shudder. 

“ I can not,^'’ she said; and from the tone of her voice Lady 
Pitcairn knew that it was useless to say more. 

“Will you tell me why you. are going. Miss Dunn?^^ she 
asked, sadly. 

“ I can not. Dear Lady Pitcairn, you have been kind as an 
angel to. me; add one more kindness to the rest — let me go 
without question. 

A shadow of fear came over the kindly face. 

“ I had hoped that you would be as a daughter to me, now 
that my own have gone from me.'’^ 

Lady Hilda dare not tell her that that, too, had been her 
chief hope; but it .was impossible; she would countenance 
murder if sl>6 remained to see Anice mistress of Hilde. She 
kissed Lady Pitcairn ^s hand. 


134 


A THORIT IN HER HEART. 


“ You know/^ she said, ‘‘ how grateful I am to you. If I 
could I would lay down my life for you. I will do anything, 
but I can not stay at Branksome.^^ 

Then Lady Pitcairn bent down and kissed the beautiful up- 
turned face. 

“ I understand,^ ^ she said, ‘‘ you have reasons of your own 
that do not concern me or mine — I will not inquire into them,^^ 
and Lady Hilda did not contradict her. 

‘‘ What have you thought of doing?’^ continued the kindly 
lady. 

Lady Hilda sighed. 

“ I must go out as companion, she said. “ I do not know 
enough to be governess. 

“ I will help you, then,^^ said Lady Pitcairn. “ Indeed, I 
think I know of something that you would like. Lady Har- 
vey, who dined here yesterday, was speaking to me of her 
young cousin, the Duchess of Nairn. She wants a companion. 

Lady Hilda looked up doubtfully. 

‘‘You have been very good to me,'’^ she said, “ and have 
overlooked all my faults and failings. Do you think I should 
be able to undertake such a post as that?^^ 

“ Yes, I do,^^ said Lady Pitcairn, decidedly. Three years 
have improved you, until I myself see no fault in you. I think 
your manner perfection. I tell Anice that if she would but 
copy your high-bred grace she would do well. 

Then you think I must please the Duchess of Nairn?^^ 
she asked, anxiously. 

“ I am quite sure of it,^' replied Lady Pitcairn. “ The 
duchess is a young girl— quite young — only seventeen, and 
marvelously lovely; they married her to the Duke of Nairn, 
who is sixty if he is a day. 

“ How cruel, cried Lady Hildg,. 

“ Cruel, P repeated Lady Pitcairn, sadly. “ It is the way 
of the world, wealth and title can always purchase beauty. 
Lurline — that is her name — Lurline always knew that she 
must marry the highest bidder, and he happened to be an old 
duke instead of an old earl.-’^ 

“ Lurline,"^ repeated Lady Hilda, “ that is a beautiful 
name, but a strange one for a lady — Lurline, Duchess of 
Nairn."" 

“ The duke and the duchess are both in the North now,"" 
continued Lady Pitcairn. “ Every now and then the duke 
grows madly jealous of his beautiful child-wife, and whirls her 
away to Woodheaton Abbey, one of the most gloomy spots in 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 135 

England; she is there now. We will drive over to Lady Har- 
vey ^s, and ask her to write and mention you.’^ 

Lady Hilda thanked her. Later on that day Anice came 
to her. 

“ Is it true/^ she said, “ that you are going to leave us?” 

“Yes,” she replied; “ I can not stay at Branksome, all the 
charm has gone for me. There is a dark shadow over the 
place. ” 

“ Like all the rest of your class,” said Anice, “ j^ou are 
ungrateful.” 

The blood of the Dunhavens rose, hot and angry. 

^May I ask to what class you allude. Miss Pitcairn?” she 
said. 

“ Yes, you may. I allude to those who receive benefits and 
are ungrateful for them. ” 

“ I will not retaliate,” said Lady Hilda, with quiet dignity; 
“ in thinking of you I can but form the wish that you may 
understand your sin before you die. 

That same day Lady Pitcairn drove over to see her friend, 
who was delighted with the idea. 

“It is a week since the duchess wrote tome,” she said, 
“ and though I have seen a dozen ladies, and written to a 
dozen more, I have not met with any one whom she would be 
likely to care for; but I am quite sure she will be pleased with 
Miss Dunn. My only fear is that Miss Dunn may find Wood- 
heaton Abbey dull; people say it is the most gloomy spot in 
England. ” 

“I have known one more gloomy,” said Lady Hilda. 
Could any place on earth be worse than Hurst Sea? 

After a few days it was settled and every arrangement made. 
Miss Dunn was to leave Branksome for Woodheaton. She had 
received two or three letters from the duchess; kind, grace- 
fully written, and full of kindly sentiments. 

It was no easy task to bid farewell to her present life. She 
went to Cecile’s grave where the flowers bloomed and the sun- 
beams fell lightly. She shed bitter tears there; the memory 
of the fair, glad young life, so abruptly cut short, so cruelly 
ended, was terrible to her. 

Sir Peter was moved to something like a show of feeling 
when the time came to say farewell. 

“ It is like parting with another daughter,” he said. “ Why 
can you not make up your mind to be happy with us? Good- 
bye, my dear. ” 

Kindly Lady Pitcairn wept over her. 

“ I (}o not know why you are leaving me,” she said; “ but 


136 A THOEK IK HER HEART. 

while I live you have always a mother, and remember that 
Branksome is always your home.'^ 

Anice did not hold out her hand; she knew Lady Hilda 
would not touch it. 

“ If ever we meet again/^ slie said, “ I hope. Miss Dunn, 
you will have learned charity in your judgment and thoughts. 

“ And I hope you will have learned the meaning of the word 
contrition, said Lady Hilda, and the two parted without an- 
other word. 

Sir Leofric loudly lamented; he could not fancy Branksome 
without her, and as she looked in his face. Lady Hilda felt 
keenly impelled to tell him the whole truth. But it was use- 
less, worse than useless, as she knew. 

It was a painful parting; they had been so good to her. She 
was a stranger and they had taken her in. Lady Pitcairn had 
been kind as a mother to her. When others would have been 
suspicious, she was sympathetic. Lady Hilda knew and felt 
that in all her life she would probably never meet with such 
another friend, yet she could not stay there where the shadow 
of murder lay on the very hearth-stone. 

The journey from Branksome to Woodheaton was along and 
tiresome one. Woodheaton was in the very heart of Cumber- 
land. She had to remain for one whole night at the City of 
York, and there it seemed to her that she had once more time 
to breathe, to remember herself and her own identity — to re- 
member that she was Lady Hilda D unhaven, wife of the Earl 
of Dunhaven, a woman whose husband did not love her, 
whose husband had said openly it was the money he wanted, 
and not the girl — a woman condemned to live always with a 
thorn in her heart. 

She had thought so little of herself at Branksome — she had 
been engrossed in her duties, and all her spare time and 
thoughts had been given to the terrible tragedy enacted there. 
But now as she stood alone in the large, lofty bed-chamber of 
the Queen^s Hotel, York, it seemed to her that once more she 
had time to think of herself. All the pretty girlish vanity 
that should live in a young girPs heart had been crushed out 
of hers when she heard what her husband said of her; since 
then she had, after a fashion, ignored herself — she had not 
cared whether she were pretty, plain, or otherwise — she had 
never cared even to look in her mirror. What did it matter 
to her, when all her life long she must bear the pain of a 
thorn in her heart? 

But on this evening, when she stood, as it were, between two 
lives, the past and the future, she thought of herself; she 


A THORIT IN HER HEART. 137 

wondered what the three years had done for her — she stood be- 
fore her mirror, trying to find out. 

She must haye been blind not to see that the face she gazed 
on was one of the most beautiful ever seen. It was a strange 
beauty, of its kind — sweet, sad, pathetic, with something of 
tragedy in it. Looking at her, one read a story there; it was 
beautiful with the highest beauty; the eyes were bright, 
grand, and clear — a noble soul looked out of them, a soul that 
had passed through fire; the beautiful features, the white, 
smo(>th brow, the red mouth, so young and fresh, with its 
dainty, lovely curves, the white, rounded chin was all perfec- 
tion. Three years had changed the young earTs wife from an 
untrained school-girl to a lovely woman. 

She stood quite silent for some few minutes, looking at her- 
self with unconcealed wonder; she had heard herself called 
tall, ungraceful, awkward, but the figure reflected in that 
mirror, was one of supreme symmetry and statuesque grace; the 
beautiful neck, the white rounded arms, the lovely, sloping 
shoulders, the graceful curves and lines filled her with won- 
der. Then she sighed; of what use was this noble, spiritual 
grand beauty to her whom no one loved, and who had to live 
always with a thorn in her heart? 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE DUCHESS OF NAIRN. 

‘‘ A NEW life.^^ It seemed to Lady Hilda that every note 
that every bird sung, that every breath of wind, every sweet 
sound of nature repeated those words to her — ‘‘ A new life.^-^ 
What lay before her in these years that were coming? She 
could hardly tell; nothing but pain and death, she supposed, 
there could be no brightness, happiness, or love for her. 

Yet, as she went further from Branksome, her spirits re- 
vived. It had been most terrible to her, that weight of se- 
crecy on her heart and brain; it had weighed her down to the 
very earth — now there was new life. 

It was the end of February, and already the promise of 
spring was over the land. The faint breath, of the violets per- 
fumed the air, there was a gleam in the woods of early prim- 
roses, the snow-drops drooped their white heads in the gar- 
dens, the great trees had begun to thrill with new life. So 
beauty and hope went with her on that journey— on this pass- 
age from an old life to a new one. It is hard even to the 
most wretched to be quite miserable on a bright spring day. 


138 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


Lady Hilda^s thoughts went back to the last day on which she 
had traveled, when the young earl, her husband, had been by 
her side. Where was he now? Had he forgotten her? Was 
he happy with the money that had been so much more to 
him than herself? 

A great longing came over her to hear something of him. 
He had never been for one moment out of her mind; but she 
had lived so much in other ^s lives while she was at Branksome. 
Now the thirst and longing were on her again to see him, to 
hear of him, and yet she never could, for she was dead to him 
and her old life; yet the breath of spring, the faint odor of the 
violets, the stir of the great branches, the moaning of the 
winds, the beams of the sun, the beautiful sky, all filled her 
heart with a great, intense longing to see him. 

It was evening before she reached the little station of Arl- 
horn. A carriage awaited her from the Abbey. She had ex- 
pected something dreary, but she had never dreamed of the 
reality; yet the very dreariness had a beauty of its own. There 
was beauty in the weird silence that reigned over these great 
moors; in the great green expanse that in its undulation re- 
sembled a great green sea; there was beauty in the bloom of 
the heather; in the short grass; in the groups of trees that 
every now and then broke the monotony; in the vast expanse 
of blue sky; in the great stretch of purple hills that lay behind 
the moors. 

But why should one choose to live there in the midst of that 
solitude? The drive over the moors was a long one; it ended 
at last. And Lady Hilda saw a great green hill that rose like 
a mountain before her — a huge, sloping hill. One side of it 
was covered with an immense 'pine wood, on the other side 
stood the huge pile of building known as Woodheaton Abbey, 
evidently a relic of feudal times; there was no building of 
more ancient date in England. How many wars that grim 
old abbey had witnessed no one knew. The towers and turrets 
could have told strange stories. They had frowned on foes of 
all nations — on the Danes, who had grouped under the shadows 
of its walls, on the Normans, who came to take possession of 
it and were driven back with slaughter. The flag that waved 
from the keep had never been lowered. 

Woodheaton Abbey was given, with all its lands, to the 
then Duke of Nairn by Henry the Fourth, and it had been in 
the same family ever since. Gh’ue, the other dukes had never 
lived there. They had kept the Abbey more as a' grand his- 
torical show-place than anything else. Ildephons, nineteenth 
Duke of Nairn, made it his stronghold; he liked to retire there 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 139 

for a few months at a time and keep his beautiful child-wife 
all to himself. lie had refurnished the western wing of the 
Abbey with all the magnificence possible. A broad road 
shaded by trees wound up to the Abbey. Lady Hilda looked 
at the scene in wonder — the gray, frowning walls, covered with 
ivy, the huge towers, the green valley below, and the trees 
that seemed to be so curiously mixed with the walls and pillars. 

The great entrance gates swung open when the carriage 
stopped, and she found herself in a large stone entrance-hall 
with a superb roof of grained oak, a hall quite as large as any 
ordinary house; a pretty maid, neatly dressed, came up to her 
with a smiling courtesy. 

“ Are you Miss Dunn?^^ she asked; and Lady Hilda^s beau- 
tiful face flushed as she answered: 

“ Yes./^ 

“ Her grace wishes me to say that she feels sure you must 
be tired after that long journey; and she hopes that you will 
order what you wish and go to your own room to rest. 

She was only too grateful. She followed the pretty maid 
up the long, steep, vaulted staircase, through the long, dark 
corridors, through rooms of gloomiest aspect; even the pretty 
maid breathed more freely when they reached the western 
wing; it was far more light, bright, and cheerful; besides 
which the fittings were of a modern kind. 

V Her grace thought you would prefer this side of the Ab- 
bey, Miss Dunn,’’ said Phillis, the maid, as she opened the 
door leading to a small but pretty suite of rooms. 

Lady Hilda shuddered in spite of herself. She could not 
tell any one how this place reminded her of the dull Eliza- 
bethan house at Hurst Sea. 

The rooms allotted to her — three in number — were prettily 
arranged and tolerably bright. It was only when she went to 
the window that she was in the least degree dismayed; and 
then a little cry of alarm came from her lips. It seemed to 
her that she was in the clouds, for .the green depths below ter- 
rified her— it was one precipitous descent from the tower into 
the valley. 

“ How steep,” she cried. I should not like to fall from 
the window. ” 

Phillis smiled. 

“ Her grace never will go near any of the windows,” she 
said; “ the views from all of them are enough to frighten 
nervous people. Can I help you. Miss Dunn? My lady said 
I was to be quite at your service.” 

The deft hands of Phillis helped her as she changed her 


140 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


traveling dress. Phillis brushed out the long, luxuriant 
hair, praising it so that Lady Hilda smiled in spite of herself. 

o one had ever praised it before. 

“ Let me help you dress always. Miss Dunn,^^ said quiet 
Phillis; “ to brush such hair as this is a pleasure. Her grace 
never sits still while I dress hers.'’^ 

Phillis was determined to make the stranger comfortable; 
she drew an easy-chair to the fire, then brought a cup of tea, 
with hot cake. 

“ May I tell her grace that you are comfortable. Miss 
Dunn?^'’ she asked. 

“ Yes; and please add how glad I shall be to see her grace, 
Phillis. 

“ Whatever brought such a beautiful creature to this place? 
said the maid to herself, as she turned away. “It is bad 
enough for my lady, who is compelled to live here; bad enough 
for me, for I love my lady too well ever to leave her; but why 
she should come puzzles me.'’^ 

Lady Hilda was quite rested when the Duchess of Nairn 
sent for her. She was too innately well-bred to feel the least 
trepidation; the Dunhavens did not know the sensation of 
fear; but she wondered a little as she went through the long 
passage what Lurline, Duchess of Nairn, was like. 

She never forgot the picture she saw. After finding her 
way through the long, badly lighted corrjdors, she came tojthe 
door of what was called the red room-. It looked like a para- 
dise of warmth and comfort. Her eyes were dazzled by it at 
first. For some moments she could hardly see; a beautiful 
clear fire burned in the silver grate, a crimson carpet covered 
the floor, the room was lighted by a profusion of wax tapers; 
white statues gleamed from the crimson hangings; it was a 
very nest of warmth and beauty. 

Then, when her dazzled eyes saw more plainly, she perceived 
a figure seated in a crimson velvet easy-chair — a lovely girlish 
figure in a trailing dress of white satin, trimmed with bunches 
of green grass — a figure that in that crimson glow looked 
white and radiant as an angePs. She raised her eyes to the 
charming face and then stood quite still in sheer surprise. 

She had thought Anice Pitcairn beautiful; but such loveli- 
ness as she saw before her now she had never even dreamed 
of. The face was dainty and delicate in its exquisite bloom; 
the white was of the purest, the red of the loveliest; the deli- 
cate hue of tlie pink sea-shell, or the colors that die in the' 
inner leaf of a rose had no more perfect harmony. 

. It was not a Grecian face, yet the head reminded one of the 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


141 


far-famed Clyfcie, so graceful, so spirit nelle; the face was oval in 
shape, the forehead white and rounded, the brows straight and 
delicately marked; the eyes were perhaps the chief beauty of 
that lovely face; they were large, dark and bright as stars, 
their color one of wondrous loveliness, the hue of a dark 
hearths ease, the long lashes were like silken fringes. It was 
rather a child’s head than a woman’s; the hair of sunny gold 
clustered in a thousand curls; they lay on the white brow, and 
on the white neck they seemed to have caught and to hold the 
sunlight. 

Those who loved her said her. mouth was her chief beauty; 
the red lips were so perfect in shape and color, the play of 
them was so charming. Smiling, they smiled a man’s heart 
away; wooing, they could win what they wanted; it was the 
most perfect mouth ever seen on a woman’s face. 

She rose slowly, and smiled as she saw the astonished look 
on Lady Hilda’s face. Standing in the heart of that crimson 
glow, with her rich white dress sweeping the floor, the Duchess 
of Nairn looked more like a fairy than like a woman or child. 

She held out a white hand covered with jewels. She spoke, 
and the low clear voice sounded like sweetest music. 

‘‘ How good of you to come to this desolate spot,” she said. 
“ Let me bid you welcome; I can never thank you enough for 
coming. ” 

Then the two, whose lives were so strangely to cross, stood 
and looked at each other. 


CHAPTER XXXTI. 

PLEASURE IN PROSPECT. 

‘‘You look surprised,” said the duchess, half laughing, 
“lam afraid that tlie truth is that like every one else you 
think I am very young.” 

“ I thought to see an older lady,” was the grave reply. 

“ I am quite old enough,” said the duchess, with a little 
nod. “ The one mistake of life is growing old. I should like 
to be always the same age I am now.” 

“ You must find life very pleasant to wish to be always at 
its threshold,” said Lady Hilda. 

And again the duchess laughed. It was a pleasant sight to 
see her laugh; the smile began in her eyes and went to her 
lips; they took the most delicious curves and lovely little 
dimples came near them; the sound was sweet as that of a tiny 
silver bell. 


142 


A •THOUK IN' ITHR HEART. 


“ Life/^ she said, “ ah, my dear Miss Dunn, I am just be- 
ginning that. I have seen -nothing of it; in fact, my own wed- 
ding was about the most magnificent thing I have seen. 
True, I was presented at Court, but I did not enjoy that. 
Mamma was so frightened I had no amusement; but if ever 
any one was in love with life I am. 

“In love with life.^^ That was a new idea to the earDs 
young wife, whose life had been all pain. The duchess re- 
sumed her seat, and Lady Hilda took a chair near her. 

“I am afraid you will find Woodheaton very dull,' Miss 
Dunn. If I gave way to my own sentiments about it, I should 
die of ennui, but I live in hope.’^ 

“ On the hope of leaving it,’^ said Lady Hilda. 

“ Yes,^^ said the duchess. 

She looked steadily at the beautiful noble face before her. 

“ It is a cruel thing to have brought you here. Miss Dunn,” 
she said. “ When they talked of a companion, I always pict- 
ured a lady full of years and experience; some one whose face 
had wrinkles in it; your face is sweet and soft as a rose; it is a 
pity for you to waste your youth and beauty here.” 

“ My youth and beauty — if I have any — are of but little use 
to me. I may as well wear them here as anywhere. ” 

The duchess looked attentively at her. 

“ You are very beautiful,” she said; “ and I do not think 
you can be much older than I am. I am seventeen and a 
half.” 

“ I am twenty-one,” said Lady Hilda. 

“ That is young; you have a kind of story in your face, too; 
it is not like other faces; you Iiave a scar on the right temple; 
have you had some wound or accident?” 

“ Yes; I met with an accident,” said Lady Hilda, evasively. 

“ And so,” continued the duchess, “ you are to be my com- 
panion. Well, you are a beautiful girl; but I can not help 
wishing you were a handsome young man instead. Hay, do 
not look shocked, I am too frank and outspoken. It may 
sound very dreadful, yet it is true. I see none but old faces 
round me. The duke is *as old as the hills almost. I very 
often wish I could see gentlemen of my own age, who would 
understand me. When I laugh the duke looks surprised, and 
says, ‘ May I inquire what causes your merriment?^ I hope 
you enjoy laughing. Miss Dunn. I do; I live on it, though I 
get but little here.” 

“Perhaps you have a keen sense of humor,” said Lady 
Hilda. 

“ I have a keen sense of something which keeps me alive. 


A THOKN IK HEll HEART. 


143 


when circumstances ought to be the death of me/^ replied the 
duchess. “ I want a companion to help me to keep up my 
spirits. You will not see the duke this evening. Miss Dunn; 
he retires always at nine. The whole house is closed and sup- 
posed to be wrapped in slumber by ten. 

“ That must seem early to you/^ said Lady Hilda, hardly 
knowing what to say. 

“ I do not retire — I amuse myself until midnight; I dance 
by myself, I look over my jewels; but let me do what I may 
the time seems heavy, and I am glad, oh, so heartily glad, 
that you are here. You will not go to sleep at ten, shall you?^^ 

“ No; I will sit up with you as long as you like,^^ said Lady 
Hilda. 

She was but a child, this beautiful young duchess, whose 
brow was crowned with a coronet and on whose white slim 
fingers shone the golden wedding-ring — only a child, a laugh- 
ing, light-hearted child, not a woman. There was no depth 
of pain or love in those beautiful eyes, there was no passion in 
the beautiful face; a child who had been married without any 
will of her own to a man quite old enough to be her grand- 
father; a child who looked with laughing eyes on the gay old 
world, who even enjoyed the jest of b^ing shut up in the 
gloomy old Abbey; a child whose heart still slept, whose soul, 
with its dormant passion, was not yet awake; a child whose 
mind was clear and pure as a mirror. Lady Hilda, who was 
by no means given to sudden friendships, loved her almost at 
once. 

They soon fell into the right position. The duchess should 
perhaps have been a superior, but she yielded to the higher, 
nobler nature of Lady Hilda. Long before the interview that 
evening was over, the duchess was kneeling by Lady Hilda^s 
side, owning to herself that this companion of hers had the body 
and soul of a queen. 

“ I can see how it will be,'’^ she said; “ you will be to me 
like an elder sister; Heaven is good to me; there is no one liv- 
ing who wanted a friend so much as I did. ” 

They talked until after midnight; and when Lady Hilda 
went down to her own room her mind was/f ull of the beautiful 
child-duchess, who already looked up to her with intense love 
and reverence; when the morning dawned she was more than 
ever struck by the gloom of the old Abbey; outside the sun 
shone and the dew lay on the grass; inside, the' rooms, taken 
at their best, were dark and dull; the great gong sounded for 
breakfast, and Phillis came to show her the way. 

The duchess looked more lovely in the morning light than 


144 


A THOEN m HEE HEAET. 


she had done oh the previous evening; fresh as a rose, bright 
as a sunbeam, dressed with rare simple elegance; a pretty 
morning robe of white and blue, with a blue ribbon in her 
hair, and her hair a mass of lovely, tangled gold. 

Breakfast was laid in a large, lofty room, that was dull de- 
spite its size. The duchess, taking Lady Hilda^’s hand, led her 
up to the duke. 

“ Ildephonse,'’^ she said, “let me introduce Miss Dunn to 
you; a lady who has kindly consented to be my companion in 
this wilderness. 

The duke bowed. 

“ I hope Miss Dunn will not find it a wilderness,^’’ he said. 
“We will try to make it pleasant for her.'’'’ 

The young duchess groaned. Her husband started at the 
sound. 

“ I can not help groaning,^ ^ she said, “ to think any one 
could ever think Woodheaton pleasant.^’ 

Lady Hilda looked somewhat curiously at the duke; his 
wife standing by his side, looked like a fair-haired child. He 
was very old, nearer seventy than sixty, his hair and mustache 
quite white, his face gray and wrinkled, his eyes dull and dim, 
his thin white hands were tremulous and shaking, his voice 
was tliin and broken; but old and gray as he was, he seemed 
to have a passionate love for the child at his side. 

“My darling,” he said, “how flushed and fair you look 
this morning; you are like a rose with the dew on it.” 

The duchess laughed. 

“ You will have to invent some new compliment for me,” 
she said. “You repeat the "same words every day. Ah, here 
is the coffee. On these cold mornings coffee is better than 
compliments.^^ 

They sat down to the table; but Lady Hilda could do little 
except watch the strangely assorted pair before her. The 
young duchess, so cool, so calm, so entirely self-possessed, so 
light of heart, yet with a certain sarcasm in her words that 
seemed natural to her. The duke, engrossed in her, attended 
to her wants, ordering everything, possible and impossible, 
that he thought she would like; it was so strange a sight for 
the earFs wife; she was bewildered at it. 

When breakfast was over, the duchess folded her hands with 
an expression of devout resignation. 

“ The usual programme, I presume,” she said. 

Her husband looked anxiously at her. 

“ It is best for your health, Lurline,” he said, “ Miss 
Dunn will go with us.” 


A THOKK IK HER HEART. 


145 


“ I hope she will enjoy it/’ said the child- wife with a little 
shrug of her shoulders. “ We will go. Miss Dunn, and 
dress. ” 

As they walked -along the corridor she stood at one of the 
windows and looked into the deep green ravine below. 

“ It is a bright spring day,” she said, “ bright, with just a 
breath of perfume in the air; do you know what the pro- 
gramme is?” 

“ No,” replied Lady Hilda. 

The duchess opened the casement. 

“Breathe that air,” she said; “ is it sweet? It gives one 
new life, new energy; we shall be out on those moors two, per- 
haps three hours, yet we shall not taste it.” 

“ Why?” asked Lady Hilda, to whom fresh air was life. 

“ The duke will always have a closed carriage; all that I 
can say matters nothing; he will not let the wind blow on me 
or the sun kiss me, I sit there hour after hour longing to be 
one of the peasant children who run after the wheels.” 

“ Have you told him you do not like it?” asked Lady 
Hilda. 

“ Yes, a hundred times; but he thinks he knows what is 
good for me better than I know it myself. I differ from 
him.” 

“ So should I in this case,” said Lady Hilda. “ Fresh air 
is life.” 

“ They do not believe in it here; if the duke finds a window 
open he cries out that his life is in danger, while I can not live 
unless I am as free as a bird. Miss Dunn, will you come out 
with me for a run sometimes over the heather?” vv 

“ Indeed I will,” replied Lady Plilda, “ there, is nothing I 
should like better.” 

“ If you promise that I shall bear the rest patiently; but to 
be seventeen and to be married to a dear old duke of nearly 
seventy, who does. not believe in fresh air, is a trial. Miss 
Dunn.” Ui 

The duchess looked charming in a piquant little Parisian 
bonnet and a driving costume by Worth; but Lady Hilda 
soon found out the tru.th of what she said. The preparations 
for the drive were most grotesque; the duke must have half a 
dozen rugs, a fur cap tied round his ears, a foot warmer, and 
every precaution was taken lest by some unforeseen means a 
breath of the lovely moorland air should touch him. The two 
ladies sat opposite him, and more than once the child-duchess 
solaced herself by saying: 

“ You will not forget what you have promised me, Miss 


146 


A THOllN II^ HER HEART. 


Dunn; a run over the heather by ourselves, without any one 
knowing. 


CHAPTEK XXXIIL ’ 

A CONTESTED MOTHER. 

Civilized people rail against slavery and denounce the sale 
of human beings as a deadly crime; but what Circassian 
mother ever sold a beautiful daughter more completely than 
Augusta, Countess of Lansmere, sold hers. 

There was not a prouder, more managing woman in Eng- 
land than Lady Lansmere. She married young, and to her 
great chagrin had no son. Her husband died when she was in 
her thirtieth year, leaving her with two daughters. The title 
and estates passed to the next of kin, who was a miser in his 
way, and had one mania — Italian independence. He lived in 
Italy, and put by the greater part of his income. 

Lady Lansmere never made any appeal to him. She had a 
small income, but great ambition. She considered that she 
herself had failed in life — she had married partly from love — no 
such folly should mar the prospects of her two fair daughters. 
She wasted no time in thinking of a second marriage for her- 
self, but devoted herself to the training of her daughters. 

They were both beautiful girls; the eldest, Esther, a superb 
brunette, she destined for the Earl of Lintower, one of the 
wealthiest peers in England; young, energetic, and clever, a 
man for whom every one prophesied a brilliant future. Half 
the fine ladies in England had maneuvered for him, and had 
done, their best to trap him for one of their daughters. 

libw Lady Lansmere managed her daughters no one knew, 
but she had the glory of marrying her daughter to the best 
match in England. Esther, Countess of Lintower, became 
just what her mother had wished to see her — one of the queens 
of fashion. 

Then, in two years’ time, Lurline, the younger, reached her 
sixteenth year; and Lurline was beautiful as a dream; beauti- 
ful enough to have been crowned a queen. 

Augusta, Countess of Lansmere, had looked round all Eng- 
land, but it seemed there was no one good enough for her 
lovely child. 

The best matches were in the young Viscount Tours and the 
Marquis of Badleigh; but tlie viscount was in feeble health, 
and the marquis had not a very large income. 

True, there was the Duke of Nairn; but Lady Lansmere 
felt doubtful over him. He waSj iu his way, a prince. Ho 


A THOBK IN HER HEART. 


14 '^ 


was supposed to be the wealthiest peer in England ; he owned 
palaces, castles, parks; he had more honors than he could 
count; he lived in royal state, and was looked upon as one 
of the magnates of the land. 

Even to Lady Lansmere the task of winning him seemed 
difficult. 

He had been married once, and his wife had been dead over 
thirty years; for ten years after her death he had been a mark 
for all the matrimonial arrows; none of them touched him; 
blonde and brunette wooed him in vain. It had long been 
considered quite a hopeless case. Mammas with marriageable 
daughters no longer mentioned the duke^s name as an eligible. 

Lady Lansmere, looking with anxious eyes, saw no one so 
well fitted for her beautiful child as his Grace of Nairn. 

True, he was over sixty; but then it was advisable that such 
a beautiful young creature should have some one of experience 
t(Mook after her. 

Lady Lansmere however was not sanguine. She knew that 
Lady Vere with her two beautiful daughters had tried in' vain; 
still it was worth the trial. She heard that the duke was to 
be at Mrs. Leston^s garden-party, and she took her beautiful 
Lurline there. 

At first the duke ignored every lady present; then he caught 
sight of the glorious young face and golden head. 

“ Who is that? he asked abruptly, of the person nearest 
him. 

“ Lurline Lansmere, Lady Lansmere’s youngest daughter.^' 

The duke went to her at once. He had never been so 
charmed. The lovely, piquant face, the golden head, the 
clustering curls, all charmed him. But the girl laughed at his 
old-fashioned compliments; she was frankly uncivil to him. 
Duke or no duke, it mattered little to her; she had come there 
to enjoy herself, and it was too vexatious to waste her time in 
talking to that tiresome old gentleman.. 

Her very incivility charmed him. He had been so sought 
after all his life, that it was something quite fresh to find some 
one who laughed at his compliments and seemed anxious to get 
rid of him. 

Lady Lansmere listened in silent horror while her daughter 
talked to his grace. Could that possibly be a daughter of hers? 
If the girl did not respect such a title and such wealth, what 
did she respect.^ In vain she looked, frowned, made every 
kind of gesture, Lurline would not understand. She positively 
left the duke to join a game of croquet. Could human folly 
go further? 


148 


A THORK m HER HEART. 


“You have a charming daughter there. Lady Lansmere,^^ 
said his grace. “ I have seen nothing and no one so beautiful 
in my life. 

“ Your grace is very kind to say so,^^ replied the delighted 
woman. “ Lurline is very young — her manner ' is hardly 
formed. 

The duke smiled. 

“ Then never let it be formed if it is to be diiferent; I think 
it is perfectly charming, and I shall ask permission to see 
more of her.^^ 

“ That is as good as an olfer,^^ said the countess to herself; 
“ he has never said so much of any one else.^^ 

“ I shall be pleased to see your grace,^'’ she said, simply. 

And from that hour the wooing began. It was of no use 
for Lurline to object; from morning until night she heard of 
nothing but the wealth, the grandeur, the state of the Luke 
of Nairn. 

The duke made her an offer in due form. She laughed at%. 

“ L^im sixteen, and he is sixty, she said. “ People would 
call us May and December. 

“ Never mind that; they would be compelled to call you 
Duchess of Nairn; and there is no higher title.'’ ^ 

“ It is of no use adding that I do not love him, is it, 
mamma?’'’ asked Lurline. 

“ What can such a trifle as love matter, when such a mag- 
nificent marriage is in question,’'’ said the countess. 

“ I do not love him, that is quite certain; and it would be 
rather awkward if I were to meet some one I could love after 
I was married, mamma. 

“ My dear Lurline, you really must not talk in that im- 
moral fashion; love is all very well for milk-maids and shep- 
herds; men and women of the world know better; love is but 
an empty fancy. ” 

“ And do you think I may be as happy without it as with it, 
mamma?” asked the child, all unconscious of her birthright. 

“ Most certainly, if you marry the duke you will be the 
happiest woman in England — you will be the envy of every 
girl in the country.” 

“ But he is so old, mamma, and so tiresome.” 

“ Those are the drawbacks, Lurline, but they are next to 
nothing. The Duchess of Nairn would take rank next to the 
royal family; she would take precedence of every peeress in 
England. Lurline, if I talked to you for a year, I could never 
tell you the advantages you will gain by this marriage — they 
are something incredible. ” 


A THORK m HER HEART. 


149 


When the Countess of Lintower heard of it, she merely 
clasped her hands and said: 

“Ah, mamma, if that had been my fate. Why did I not 
wait for it?^’ 

“^Would you really rather have married the duke than the 
earl?” cried Lurline, with wide-open eyes. 

“ Would I rather be Duchess of Nairn than Countess of 
Lintower? My dear Lurline, ask me if a bird can fly or a flsh 
swim; there need be no answer to such a question. 1 envy you 
with all my heart.” 

“ I do not love him, I do not even like him,” said the 
child; “ I think he is tiresome beyond all measure.” 

“ Wliat can that matter,” said her sister, “ when you will 
have the noblest title, the richest husband, the flnest diamonds 
and the best position in England?” 

“ But, Esther, I should like some one younger, some one I 
could love. ” 

Lady Lintower wrung her hands in dismay. 

“ It can not be possible,” she said, “ that any girl in her 
senses would or could dream of refusing this offer; if you do, 
Lurline, you deserye to die an old maid. Poor mamma. I 
am sorry for her; every mother in London envies her good 
fortune, and you would make every one laugh at her. Lurline, 
be wise, and marry him. ” 

She was but a child, her woman^s heart still sleeping, her 
woman^s soul dormant — a child easily dazzled, easily per- 
suaded, and they pursued her with entreaties; they surrounded 
her with such an atmosphere of flattery and persuasion that it 
was impossible to refuse. 

Her mother talked of nothing else than the duke^s wealth 
and estates, of his diamonds, of the glories and. honors that 
would fall to her lot. She was but a child, and her store of 
arguments was soon exhausted. The duke wooed her like a 
prince, his presents were most numerous and beautiful, most 
costly and priceless. The struggle was not a fair one —left 
alone she would have refused him, but mother and sister never 
left her alone, and the result was that between laughing and 
crying the child yielded and said she would marry him. 

“My darling Lurline,” cried the countess, in ecstasy, 

“ how more than good of you. Now indeed I am a proud and 
happy mother. ” ■ 

“ 1 am sure every one will laugh at me,” she said; “ you 
know they will, mamma. He looks just like my grandfather. ” 
“My dear cliild, when you are a little older,” said the 


150 


A THOKH m HER HEART. 


countess, ‘‘ you will know that no one laughs at the rich and 
prosperous. Every one will envy you. 

But even the worldly mother felt just a little ashamed’ when 
she saw the golden-haired child by the old man^s side before 
the altar. 

“It would have looked better/'’ she said to her daughter 
Esther, “ if the duke had been a little younger, or Lurline a 
little older; the contrast is very great. 

“ That will not matter, mamma; she is Duchess of Nairn,/^ 
was the reply, “ and that is all we need care for.'’^ 

The child herself half laughed, half cried over her fate. 

“ I do wish he would dye his hair or wear a wig, mamma,” 
she said; “ it looks so absurd to see a man making love witli" 
white hair.^^ 

“ A man with white hair can love as well as a man with 
black hair,-” said the countess. 

“ I should like the black best,^^ said Lurline. 

She went away bravely enough, and no one knew whether 
she laughed or cried most'. The Countess of Lansmere folded 
her hands when the wedding-breakfast was over, and said : 

“ Now, indeed, I am the proudest and the happiest mother 
in England; my daughter could not have married better, and 
I am content. ” 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

A PROMISE EXACTED. 

The Duchess of Nairn never made any complaint over her 
married life; she was philosopher enough to know that what 
was done could not be undone, and that she must make the 
best of it. It was all very well to be- a duchess, but she said 
to herself she would far rather have been back in the school- 
room — she had far more liberty there. Fernhurst Castle was 
the duke’s favorite residence; he took his young bride there, 
and then to please her, invited a party of friends. 

It drove him almost mad. She was simply the most de- 
licious little duchess ever seen — a child with a woman’s face 
and an angel’s grace; the most charming, fascinating hostess 
who ever reigned in that ducal mansion. 

Every one was in love with her; it was impossible to help it, 
and the duke was almost beside himself with jealousy. Talk 
of a season in town. It was not to be heard of; he would go 
to Woodheaton where hef would have his lovely child wife all to 
himself. She went with him without remonstrance, but Lady 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


151 


Lansmere, more worldly wise than herself, advised the duke to 
let her have a companion. He was quite willing, and made 
Lady Hilda very welcome. 

Lady Hilda found the life very dull; how the beautiful 
young duchess bore it she could not tell. There was the same 
monotonous routine every day — the breakfast, during which 
the duke loaded his wife with compliments — the long dreary 
drive, during which few words were spoken, but the young 
duchess looked unutterably wretched; after that came a long 
solemn luncheon, at which the duke drank his favorite port, 
and then composed himself to sleep. 

That was their time of freedom; then Lurline, shaking off 
the depression it was impossible to avoid, would take Lady 
Hilda^s hand. 

“ Now for a run,^^ she would say. “ Never mind dress, 
never mind appearances, never mind anything, but let us run, 
while the duke sleeps we can have a beautiful hour. 

The hour was as a rule extended to two, and the duchess 
declared it was this little bit of freedom that saved her life. 
What a child she was — how she ran and danced over the 
heather; how she reveled in her freedom, stopping for a few 
minutes to say how dear it was to her. 

Then they rested until it was time to dress for dinner. The 
duchess always dressed with great care and elegance. 

“ There is no one tO see me,^^ she .would say laughingly to 
Lady Hilda, “ but that does not matter. I smile to myself ar d 
admire myself, just as I danced to myself before you came.'’' 

The long ceremonious splendid dinner was a treat to both 
of them. It was served with all possible state and splendor. 
The duke, who was a confirmed Ion vivant, never abated any 
of the ceremonies because they were alone. 

When it was over, the two ladies went to the drawing-room, 
and the duke followed them in an hour's time. Then came 
coffee, music, and sometimes cards. At nine o'clock, the duke 
bade them good-night, and they were left to their own devices. 
As a rule, the young duchess behaved pretty well, but there 
were times when the dull monotony exhausted her, and the re- 
action was violent when the door closed on the stately figure 
of the old duke; she would cry out as though she were stifled; 
cry for fresh air, cry for liberty, for freedom; cry for some one 
to amuse her, to care for her; then look up with sweet pa- 
thetic eyes in Lady Hilda's face. 

I cry out sometimes. Miss Dunn," she said; “ I can not 
help it— I should go mad if I did not. Let us have a walk 


V 


152 


A THOKN m HEE HEAET. 


under the light of the moon, and talk about the kind of life 
we should have led had we been able to choose/^ 

A walk in the moonlight always soothed and calmed her; 
but Lady Hilda wondered what she would do if ever her 
woman^s soul awoke within her. 

In the morning the duchess met her coming down the dark 
staircase that led to her room. She had found a pet name 
for her, she always called her Mamie. Now she clasped' her 
arms round her. 

“ Mamie, she said, “ I have come to a stern determina- 
tion; guess what it is.^'’ 

“ I can not guess,’’ replied Lady Hilda. 

“ Let me tell you, then. I will not stay here; I will go to 
London for the season. Why should I be shut up here? Of 
what use is it to be a duchess, if 1 am never to see any one or 
anything? Why should the will of an old man be stronger than 
the will of a young girl? I shall assert myself.” 

Lady Hilda smiled. She had heard the same story before. 

“We will see,” persisted the duchess. “ I am going to 
make myself mistress of the situation. I shall begin to-day a 
bold attack, and something tells me I shall conquer — you will 
help me?” 

“Yes, I will help you, with all my heart,” replied Lady 
Hilda, not very sanguine though of success, and so after 
luncheon, the grand attack was made. The unsuspecting duke 
prepared as usual to enjoy his siesta; he murmured some very 
affectionate but very indistinct words, when he was surprised 
by an unusual movement on the part of his child- wife. In- 
stead of bending her charming head for his usual sleepy kiss, 
she stood in front of him, her beautiful face upraised, with a 
slight flush on it. 

“ Ildephonse,” she said. “ Before you go to sleep, I want 
lo speak to you.” 

The brisk energy of her voice startled him. 

“ Sleep, Lurline,” he replied in an injured tone, “ I have 
explained to 5 ^ou before that I do not sleep; I merely rest.” 

She bowed her head. With a great object to accomplish she 
was not willing to waste her time on trifles. 

“ Before you rest, I want to speak to you; I wish to say 
that I am quite tired of this gloomy abbey, and that I wish 
to leave it.” 

“ But, my charming Lurline, that is impossible; I have 
made my arrangements for the summer, and they can not be 
changed. ” 

“ I am so tired of it,” she said, plaintively; “ it is so dull.” 


A THORi^- IK HER HEART. 


153 


“ But you have a compamoii, Lurline, and you have me.^^ 
“ Yes, I have you, Ildephonse, but you are not lively, you 
must own that. ” 

“ Not lively,^^ said the duke, ‘‘ I do not see how you can 
say that; I assure you I have always been considered very 
cheerful. 

“ What you think cheerful, I think dull,^^ said his wife, de- 
cidedly. “ This is such a very out-of-the-way place, no one 
ever comes near it. We might as well be buried alive. 

‘‘ My dear Lurline, that is strong language; 3mu have every- 
thing that you want, that is needful for you.^^ 

“ No, I have not. I am young. Eating and drinking and 
sleeping do not satisfy me. I want gayety, amusement, 
pleasure; I had more in tlie school-room tlian I have here."*^ 

‘‘ Dear me,^^ said the duke, ‘‘ this is very serious, I had no 
idea that you were discontented. Send for your mother; ask 
her to come and pay you a visit. 

‘‘ My mother would probably prefer something more 
lively, said the girl, ‘‘besides which, she would not be a 
companion for me."’"’ 

“ You have one companion, said the duke. 

“ Yes, and I love her very much; but you see, Ildephonse, 
she is only a girl like myself; she can not do anything to amuse 
me; we can not get up balls, parties, picnics, or anything of 
that kind with each other. ” ^ 

“ What do you want,^'’ cried the earl, testily, “ that you 
have not?^^ 

“ Everything,’^ she replied with a little gesture that was 
very pathetic. “ I want to enjoy myself. I thought when I 
was a duchess, that I should have plenty of amusepient.” 

“Plenty of amusement,” repeated the duke. “Is that 
what people live for?” 

“ As well that as live for plenty of sleep,” she retorted. 

“ Sleep is a necessity for me,” he said gravely. 

“ Amusement is just as much a necessity for me,” she said, 
and the earl moved uneasily in his chair. 

She came nearer to him, and the sunlight fell on her golden 
hair, on the fair girlish face, the beautiful luminous eyes. 

If you force me to stay here, I shall die,” she said. 

*“ People do not die so easily,” said the earl. “ One must 
suffer before death.” 

“ I shall die,” she repeated, “ just as a butterfly would die 
if you shut it in the darkness— as a flower if you placed it in 
the cold. 

“ If I do die,” she continued, with a pretty emphatic nod 


154 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


of the head; “ you would marry again, Ildephonse. I know 
you would ; you are fond of marrying. Next time you would 
choose some one who is quite old, and who cares more about 
sleep than anything else in the world, and you can give her 
all the pretty diamonds; they have been of no use to me.^^ 

“ My dear Lurline, what do you want?^^ said the duke. 

“I want to go to London for the season, she said. 
“ Nothing else will either please or satisfy me. 

“ I do not see how it can be done,^^ said the duke, “ I have 
made every arrangement. 

“You will have to alter them to bury me, if I remain 
here,'^ she said; “ alter them to please me. She went nearer 
to him, and bending her lovely face over his kissed him. 
“ You should give me what I ask for now.^^ 

He would have refused her if he could. 

“ You are so 5^oung,^^ he murmured. 

“ All the more reason why I should enjoy my life,^^ she 
said. 

“ I will consent on one condition,^' said the duke. “ You 
are very young, Lurline, and I am not strong enough to go out 
with you always. You shall go to London for the season, if 
you will promise me that Miss Dunn shall go everywhere with 
you. I have implicit faith in Miss Dunn. 

“ And not in me?^^ she asked. 

“ Yes, in you also; but you will be so much sought after. 
Promise me that to all balls, breakfasts, parties, to opera, 
theater, no matter where, you will take Miss Dunn, aud I will 
be content.'’^ 

“ Why, it will be heaven on earth, said the girl, in an 
ecstasy of joy. “ I shall like everything twice as much if Miss 
Dunn is with me.^^ 

The duke smiled — she was but a child after all. He turned 
with a courteous bow to Lady Hilda. 

“ I shall be pleased to make Miss Dunn,^^ he said, “ a very 
handsome allowance, that will cover the heavy expense of 
dress and jewelry. 

She thanked him, and the young duchess bent over him. 

“ I like you better, Ildephonse, than I have ever done be- 
fore,” she said. “ I shall not sleep to-night, for thinking 4)f 
what is to come. I will not tease you any more — you shall 
rest now in peace. 

The duke sighed as he said to himself, if they went to town, 
there would be very little more rest for him. 


A THORI^ IJ^ HER HEART. 


155 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

LURLINE^S BOUDOIR. 

‘‘ Now, Miss Dunn, if ever two people went straight from 
what Dante calls II Purgatorio to Paradise, it will be you and 
1 /^ said the duchess. ‘‘ Only think what lies before us — such 
a life that I am dazed when I think of it. 

There was a slight flush on the beautiful, noble face of 
Lady Hilda. 

“ It will be very charming, she said. 

That is not the word,^^ said the duchess. “ It will be a 
long dream,. a long ecstasy, and I shall not wake up from it 
until I am quite old. The duke is good- — he shall not be 
teased, he shall sleep as much as he likes, and rest all day if he 
will, I shall never tease him again. Did you think I should 
succeed when I began 

‘‘ No,^^ replied Lady Hilda, I did not.^' 

“We shall be so happy,^^ sung the duchess, as she waltzed 
round the room; “ there will be no one to interfere with me. 
If the duke says anything, I shall ^appeal to mamma; if 
mamma speaks, I shall appeal to the duke. We shall be so 
happy, my dear.^^ 

She paused in the midst of her waltz, and standing before 
Lady Hilda, looked gravely in her beautiful face. Then, 
with a charming smile, she raised the golden-brown hair from 
her brow. 

“lam taking a rival with me,^^ she said. “ I shall not 
.see such a face as yours in any drawing-room in London.'’^ 

Lady Hilda looked up in wonder. 

“ I was never <3alled pretty in all my life, duchess,’’^ she said, 

I can fancy not. I can imagine you were one of those 
tall, plain girls who always grow into the most beautiful 
womanhood,'^ said the duchess. “Trust me, I am a judge 
of beauty. I have been pretty all my life, mamma says that I 
was the loveliest baby ever seen — I was a pretty child, a lovely 
girl, but in the eyes of a judge my beauty is as nothing com- 
pared to yours. Mine is but the beaute du diable — it lies 
chiefly in golden rings of curling hair. You have a noble face. 
Why do you look so wi§itfully at me? Are you not pleased to 
be beautiful — to be young, Mamie, and beautiful, is to have the 
world at one^s feet.'' ^ ^ 


150 . 


A THORK IK HER HEART. 


“ Beauty is a great gift/' said Lady Hilda, sadly; ‘‘but it 
will never be of any use to me. " 

The young duchess laughed gayly. 

“We shall see. If you are to be my chaperon you will see 
of what use beauty is to you. I shall in trod uce you everywhere 
as my friend, and I am quite sure you will marry M^ell with 
that face and figure. Why do you start — why have you grown 
pale? Does the word ‘ mairy ' frighten you? Cheer up; 
you may perhaps find a dear old duke of your own." 

“ If she only knew," thought Lady Hilda, “ if she knew." 

“ I am going now to give orders for the packing. Hext 
week will see me installed in Nairn House, with half London 
at my feet. What have I said that makes you look so 
thoughtful, Miss Dunn?" 

Lady Hilda tried to shake off the depression she could not 
help feeling, and she answered her evasively; but when the 
duchess had waltzed again, an expression of deep thought came 
over her beautiful face. 

Mhat if she were to/ see her husband again? She had not 
thought of that when London was first mentioned, but now it 
seemed to her highly probable that he might be there. Of his 
movements she knew nothing; she never looked into any of the 
fashionable papers, lest perchance she should see his name, and 
seeing it would re-open ajl the old wounds. 

The thorn in her heart was sharp enough, no need to make 
it sharper. 

The question came before her very plainly. If he saw her 
again, would he know her? 

She walked, with her graceful, dignified step, across the 
drawing-room, and standing before one of the large mirrors, 
looked at herself from head to foot. 

Would he know her? It seemed to Tier there was no like- 
ness whatever between the untrained, unformed girl whom the 
earl had married, and the beautiful, graceful woman who wore 
her imperial beauty with the grace of a queen — no likeness 
whatever: there was a deeper sheen on the golden brown hair, 
deeper light in the proud eyes, the mouth had taken sweeter 
and more gracious hues. She looked like what she was — the 
thorough type of an English gentlewoman. 

There on her white temple was the crimson scar. It would 
fade in time, but the time had not yet come. No, it was not 
possible that he should ever know her, the years had changed 
her so. She remembered that he had hardly ever looked at 
her face. It was a question if within his memory there was 
any distinct remembrance of her. She could not recall to 


A THOKN IN HER HEART. 


157 


mind that he had ever once looked into her face with any in- 
terest. No; she felt sure. She might meet him, talk to him, 
spend long hours with him, yet he would never recognize her. 
With proud Lady Darel should she run any risk? A womah^s 
memory is always more tenacious than a man^s. 

Lady Darel had seen more of her; still she fancied there 
was not much fear. She should go into society as the friend 
and companion of the young Duchess of Nairn; even should 
she see Lady Darel, even should Lady Darel fancy she saw 
some resemblance between her son’s wife and the duchess’s 
friend, she would never think they were the same. 

I may defy detection,” she said to herself, at last; 
“ thanks to time and time’s changes, no one will know me.” 

Then her heart beat hard and fast. Should she see him, 
this young husband of hers whom she had left on her wedding- 
day? The scene on the steamboat came so vividly before her, 
when he had left her at the cabin door, and had gone with a 
smile on his face to smoke his cigar; had he missed her? Had 
he regretted her? Ah, no. It was the money he had wanted 
and not herself; he had that now — he would not regret her. 

She could think of nothing else but whether she should see 
him. All her thoughts were engrossed by that one wonder. 
Standing there alone^ she admitted that her whole heart and 
soul hungered and thirsted for one look at him — that her whole 
life was one longing to see him. Hiding her flushed face in 
her hands, she sighed out that she loved him better than her 
life. 

“ My love, my love,” she cried, if you had but loved me.” 

All these years that love had been growing silently in her 
heart, all these years it had been slowly but surely taking pos- 
session of her; it had grown with her, it had become part of 
her life itself. 

Just to look at him, once to have stood by his side, to have 
heard his voice, to have looked in his face, she would have 
given ten years of her life. What should she do if she should 
see him. It seemed that her heart would leave her and cling 
to him— that her whole soul must break its prison bars and go 
out to meet him. Then she stopped abruptly. Of what avail 
would meeting him be? She must never say she knew him — 
she must never break that resolution, stronger than death, that 
in life she was dead to him. There came to her a doubt as to 
whether she was acting wisely,in going to town, or in running 
the risk of seeing him again. 

Whether or no it was too late to draw back now. She said 


158 


A THORlSr IN HER HEART. 


to herself that the young duchess relied on her s,o implicitly 
she could not disappoint her. 

She had grown to love the beautiful child whose fate was 
so sad. She had said to herself that the true care of this 
worse than motherless young creature, was perhaps her mis- 
sion in life, as strong-minded women call it; another thing was 
she had given her word to the duke. She had promised him 
to be his wife^s friend, companion and chaperon; she must 
keep her word. 

It was wonderful to see how the young duchess brightened 
under the new order of things; she even laughed and talked 
during the midday drive. Lady Hilda wondered, too, at her 
discretion: She never said anything about London before the 
duke, merely alluding once or twice to the time when they 
should be there. She was happy as a bird in spring time; no 
cloud, no presentiment came near her. She would talk to 
Lady Hilda for hours. 

“ I shall give balls./, ^ she would say, and you will see how 
kind I shall be to the young girls; they shall dance with the 
people they like best, and not be compelled to stand and talk 
to elderly, eligible admirers as I was. I love happiness so 
much myself that, if I could, I would make all the world 
happy. And Lady Hilda loved her for the bright, genial 
spirit that made her so winsome and gracious. 

It was the beginning of March when they left the gloomy 
abbey for London. Nairn House is one of the most magnifi- 
cent mansions in Mayfair; it had not been very long in pos- 
session of the Nairn family; it had belonged to the Carsons, 
and had been called Carson House, but the last Duke of Nairn 
had purchased it, had spent a fortune on it, and then called 
it Nairn House. 

People said that it was the most magnificent mansion even 
in London, so famed for its beautiful houses. There had 
been no expense spared, no luxury wanting. The furniture, 
carpets, pictures, statues, were all of the most artistic and 
magnificent; the ball-room was one of the largest and most 
superbly decorated; the picture gallery contained works by 
some of the best masters. It was both a pleasure and a nov- 
elty to go through those superb rooms, and note the works of 
art scattered with such liberal hand. 

The duchess was charmed. 

‘‘I had no idea, she said to Lady Hilda, that Nairn 
House was so beautiful. Come and see my boudoir — such a 
room as that would make any one happy. 

A boudoir as enchanting as a fairy tale — a ceiling painted 


A THORK IK HER HEART. 


159 


by a master-hand, hangings of rose silk and white lace; the 
most dainty articles of furniture, covered in rose satin; 
jardinieres filled with fragrant flowers; everything that money 
could purchase or luxury desire. 

The duchess threw herself on the couch covered with rose 
satin. 

‘‘ This room is like a shrine, she said. “ Miss Dunn, I 
shall receive all my most particular friends here — it has been 
furnished purposely, I think. 

And neither of them thought, as the careless words died 
away, who would be the most particular friend received there, 
nor what passion would live in the rose-colored atmosphere of 
her grace^s boudoir. 

In another week, they had made themselves quite at home, 
and were ready for the campaign. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

BEFORE THE BALL. 

“ Why are you looking at me. so intently. Miss Dunn?^^ 
asked the duchess one morning, as the two ladies sat together 
in the beautiful morning-room at Nairn House. 

“ I am thinking about you,^^ said Lady Hilda, gravely. 

‘‘ Tell me what you are thinking,^ ^ she asked. 

I am wondering whether you shall always be what you 
are now, duchess — if you will always be so easily pleased — if 
you will ever wish for a different life — if you will be content 
with balls and parties. 

“ I hope so. I was thinking of that very thing this morn- 
ing. I look young for my years. I should think that, even 
at a 'moderate guess, I shall have twenty years of gayety; I 
shall only be thirty-eight then, and I shall look about twenty- 
eight. 

‘‘ And you will be content with gayety all that time — you 
will want no truer, warmer, higher hfe.^^^ 

I hope not,^^ said the duchess, gravely; “ what is to be- 
come of me if I do? You know the young poet, Angus Stuart, 
he told me last night that my heart was sleeping, and my soul 
not yet awake. What could he mean, Mamie 

“ He meant, I should imagine, that your powers of love had 
never been awakened; that you had not learned to love any 
one yet. 

“ That is quite true,^^ said the duchess. “ I love you better 


IGO 


A THOEK m HEE HEAET. 


than any one else in the wide world; better than my mother 
and sister; but 1 know no other love.” 

‘‘ That is what your poet means, duchess,’^ said Lady Hilda. 

Does he? I hope I shall never know any other love. I 
never wish. I told mamma once that it was a dangerous thing 
to marry without love; but she said it was all nonsense.” 

“ Do you not love your husband?” asked Lady Hilda. 

Love him — that white-haired old man? I never even 
thought of it. I do not know what love is like. I told mam- 
ma it would be an awful thing if love came after marriage, 
but she said there was no fear. I have thought about it late- 
ly. I hear girls talk about love, I see them tremble and blush 
when the one they love comes near. I have never trembled, 
never blushed for any one. I wonder what it is like, this love. 
Miss Dunn? I do not think there is much in it, still I can not 
help wondering what it is like.” 

It will be well if you never know,” said Lady Hilda. 

Yes, I suppose so, and yet I heard some one say the other 
night that no woman^s life was complete without it. That 
must be nonsense; I arii quite content, quite happy, there is 
no love in my life. The duke is kind to me, ‘".nd I enjoy every 
minute of every hour; could love do more for me than that?” 

“ I should not think it would do so much,” said Lady Hilda. 
“ It is more full of pain than pleasure.” 

Then why should I want it?” said the duchess; “ have 
you read the story of Undine, Miss Dunn?” 

‘‘ Yes, I have read it,” she replied. 

“ Undine was much happier before she found her soul, do 
you not think so?” 

“ I can not judge; I should not like to say,^^ was the grave 
answer. 

“ I know; what is the use of filling your life with great 
emotions and great passions. I heard mamma say yesterday 
that one reason why I looked so ^ distressingly ^ young was 
because I had not worn my heart away with love affairs and 
flirtations. Do you know I am almost ashamed to confess it, 
but I have never had even a flirtation.'’^ 

‘‘ So much the more to your credit,” said Lady Hilda. “ I 
believe in love, but not in playing at love. ” 

The lovely young face grew grave, the violet eyes darkened, 
as the duchess continued: 

I have an idea if I ever did lovp any one, I should love 
well, better than most women; at times, deep down in my 
heart, I feel a sure conviction that there is a world of tender- 


A THORK m HER HEART. 


101 


ness, of passion, of love, sleeping, yet ready to wake into terri- 
ble life.^^ 

“ Let us hope that it may never wake then,^'’ said Lady 
Hilda, for its waking could' but give you pain.'’^ 

The duchess ^xid no more, but often when Lady Hilda looked 
at that lovely face, she remembered her words, and prayed 
that the sleeping love might never wake. 

The duchess found every wish of her heart gratified now; 
even she, accustomed to luxury, looked in wonder at the 
wardrobe the duke had ordered for her — dresses of every 
description. The duke did everything after a magnifi- 
cent fashion; he had decided that the beautiful child- wife he 
worshiped should enjoy herself, and nothing should be want- 
ing. Miss Huim had a wardrobe that enabled her to go wher- 
ever her grace went. It was one long fete; Lady Lansmere 
was in town, staying with her eldest daughter; they came fre- 
quently to Nairn House. Lady Hilda did not like either of 
them, and she fancied the“ duchess had no great affection for 
them. Lady Lansmere admired her daughter's chosen friend 
and companion very much. 

“ You have been very fortunate, she said to the duke, “ in 
securing Miss’^ann. Lurline is a little wild herself, her 
spirits are so high, but with Miss Dunn there is no fear, her 
manners are the most perfect I have ever seen.’^ 

The duke was delighted. His darling could enjoy herself 
now to her heart’s content. He made a few stipulations. She 
must always take breakfast with him; he could not breakfast 
without her. She must dine with him, and spend an hour 
after dinner with him; the rest of her time was all at her own 
disposal. The horses brought from Fernhurst for the use of 
his wife and her companion were the admiration of all who 
saw them; and in a short time, the beautiful young duchess 
was one of the most popular and beloved queens of society. 

People liked her because she was so simple and child-like. 
She enjoyed everything so completely; there was no affecta- 
tion about her; she never sought for admiration; she was no 
coquette. She frankly owned that she loved all pleasure, she 
loved dancing for dancing's sake, riding for riding's sake; she 
liked the opera for its music; the theater for its plays; she 
enjoyed every bit of gayety that came in her way. It was a 
novel sight to see the golden-haired young duchess how she 
laughed with sweet natural laughter when anything pleased 
ker; how tears darkened the moist eyes when anything touched 
her.- 

Women liked her quite as much as men. She never inter- 


102 


A THORK m HER HEART. 


fered with their lovers or admirers; she never made them jeal- 
ous. She was so sweet and bright, so gay and animated, that 
society was charmed with her. 

So matters went on until April came and town began to fill, 
and then there was no respite, no cessation-^balls, parties, 
soirees, operas occupied them incessantly. 

This is what I call life,^^ said the duchess one day to Lady 
Hilda. Confess now, that it is very charming. 

Yes, it is charming,^ ^ said Lady Hilda, but it would not 
satisfy me. After all it is but a round of gayety, and life has 
higher aims than gayety. 

‘^The higher aims will come when we grow older,^^ said 
the duchess. “ Let us^ather our roses while we may. . 

And she was so completely, so thoroughly a child, that it 
seemed useless to talk to her, Lady Hilda was full of wonder 
when she saw how completely the young duchess enjoyed her- 
self; it was no unusual thing for her to dance through the 
night, and look as fresh in the morning as though she had 
slept. She looked as happy as she felt; but at times she 
would return to the subject of love; she would ask questions; 
she would wonder; she would think; and then Lady Hilda 
would pray that the light-hearted child might never know the 
meaning of the word love. 

They had been in London three weeks, and as yet Lady 
Hilda had seen or heard nothing of her husband. She had 
been out a great deal — to several balls and dinner-parties; she 
had helped the duchess to entertain crowds of visitors, but he 
was not among them. She had listened attentively, hour after 
hour, to fashionable chit-chat, but no one had named his 
name. Once she half fancied that some one said that Lord 
Dunhaven was returning to England, but she was not quite 
sure of the name and did not like to ask. 

The duke was well pleased. His young wife never failed to 
appear at the breakfast table, and her lively description ,x)f the 
previous evening always amused him very much, the more so, 
as never by any chance was the name of an admirer men- 
tioned. The duchess was most impartial; she liked every one; 
she had no favored partners, no favorite friends. Her hus- 
band said laughingly of her that she danced through life. 

Then a slight contretemps happened; Miss Dunn caught a 
cold which was not very easily cured, and while it lasted she 
was unable to go out. Lady Lansmere offered to escort her 
daughter wherever she went, and the young duchess, although 
disliking the change, was obliged to submit. 

Lady Hilda was not ill, but she was invalid enough to re- 


A THORK HER HEART. 


163 


quire warm rooms and good nursing for a few days. The duch- 
ess spent all her time with her when she was in-doors. Lady 
Hilda had a pretty room called the blue room, one of the 
most cheerful rooms in that bright house. The duchess sat 
there with her. 

“Mamie/^she said one morning, “how I wish that you 
were well enough to go with me to the state ball this evening. 
I hear that so many nice people are to be there. Mamma and 
I are sure to come into collision about something or other. I 
want to be very charming — please tell me what I must wear?’^ 

“ White silk, with plenty of diamonds,^^ said Lady Hilda. 
“ Nothing suits you so well. Let me see you before you go.^^ 

Then the duchess stood before her ready dressed for the 
ball. She owned to herself that nothing could be more beau- 
tiful. 

A diamond coronet shone in the golden hair; the bare arms, 
the graceful neck, the white breast glittered with the same 
precious stones; a riviere of the same encircled her waist like 
a zone. 

“You want a crimson flower,^ ^ said Lady Hilda, as she 
looked at her, “ just to make you mortal; you are too much 
like the queen of the fairies now.^^ 

The duchess bent down to kiss her. 

“ You will let me come in and ^see you, Mamie, when I 
return, it will not b6 late — not much' after midnight. 

“ You are a spoiled child, duchess, but you shall do as you 
will,^^ said Lady Hilda. 

She thought of that night long afterward, for she never saw 
the same expression of perfect child-like content on the beauti- 
ful face again. 


CHAPTER XXX VIL 

THE CRUSADER. 

It was not very long after midnight when the duchess re- 
turned; she went at once to Lady Hilda’s room. 

“ Tell me,” she said, “ if you are tired — if you should like 
to sleep; if so, I will kiss you and go; if not, I will have my 
cup of coffee here and tell you all about the ball. ” 

“ There is nothing I should like better,” said Lady Hilda, 
and the duchess gave a great sigh of content. 

Phillis took off her diamonds, the beautiful coronet, the 
bracelets, and laid them on the toilet table, a glittering mass. 
The duchess shook her golden curls as though she would fain 
be free from the weight of them. 


164 


A THORIT m HER HEART. 


It was then that Lady Hilda looking at her face, saw some- 
thing there that startled her. It was not the face of a child 
that night; the laughing gayety was gone; something shone 
there never seen on that face before; a dawn of tenderness, 
the first thrill of passion; the very music of her most sweet 
voice seemed to have grown sweeter. She sat down in one of 
the easy-chairs, while Phillis brought her a cup of hot coffee; 
but she seemed in no hurry to begin — the beautiful duchess 
who had always so much to say. 

‘‘ You have enjoyed the ball,^^ said Lady Hilda. ‘‘ I need 
not ask about that.^^ 

‘‘ Yes, it has been without exception the happiest evening 
of my life,^^ she said. 

A beautiful luminous smile seemed to go from her eyes to 
her lips as she spoke. 

“ Where is your crimson flower?^ ^ asked Lady Hilda, and 
then for the first time, she saw a woman's blush upon her 
dainty face. 

“ One of my partner^ 'took it," she replied. “ That was 
not fair, was it.^^ But Lhad one in exchange." 

She held up a lovely white rose, so perfect in color and per- 
fume that Lady Hilda uttered a little cry of admiration. 

Very beautiful, is it not?" she said. “I have been so 
happy, Mamie. I have danced all night." 

‘^Did you meet with as many nice people as you expected?" 
asked Lady Hilda. 

“Yes, I have met the nicest people I ever saw to-night," 
was the answer. 

Lady Hilda noticed that though she answered every ques- 
tion, she volunteered no remark. After every sentence she 
seemed to relapse into a smiling happy dream. 

“ I have been so happy," she said at last, with a smile of 
unutterable content. 

“ What made you happier than usual to-night, duchess?" 
asked Lady Hilda. 

The violet eyes were raised to hers with a smile. 

“ I can not tell you," she replied. “ The music was sweeter, 
the lights brighter, everything seemed more beautiful, and I 
had a very nice partner. " 

Then came a few minutes of silence; a smile played around 
the sweet curved lips of the young duchess. Wonder stirred 
in the heart of Lady Hilda. 

“ I have never thought about my partners before," she con- 
tinued; “ if they danced well, that was all I cared for. But 


A THOEN IK HEE HEAET. 165 

this one was different — he talked so well, and seemed to en- 
joy being with me. 

“ Is it any one I have met?'^ asked Lady Hilda. 

“ No, he is quite a stranger to us. You have not met him; 
he said his stay in London, or even in England, was very un- 
certain. But, Mamie, if I never see him again, I shall never 
forget him; he is unlike any one else 1 have ever seen. I 
danced four times with him; he took me in to supper; he said 
if he remained in London he would call. I should Like you 
to see him; he has a face like the picture of the Crusader at 
Woodheaton.^^ 

Then Lady Hilda asked other questions about the ball. 
The duchess gave her a most animated account of it, then 
finished her cup of coffee and, bending over Lady Hilda, kissed 
her. 

“Good -night, Mamie, she said. “Have I tired you by 
stories of my crusader?'’^ 

“ I am never tired when you talk,^^ said Lady Hilda. 

She noticed that when the duchess left her, she never even 
turned to see if her maid had put away all her diamonds care- 
fullv, but she took with her the white rose. 

“I pray Heaven,” said Lady Hilda, “ that the child ^s heart 
is not waking— she had better die.^^ 

Her health did not improve, and the doctor said that she 
must repiain for quite another week in the house. Lady Lans-. 
mere came to Nairn House for the week, as the duchess had so 
many engagements. Though she could not be out with her. 
Lady Hilda watched her keenly, and she saw the slow gradual 
change that came over her and transformed her from a maid 
into a loving passionate woman. 

The day following the duchess went to a concert given at 
St. Jameses Palace; she came home with the same softened 
beautiful expression on her face. 

“ Mamie,^^ she said, “I have seen my crusader again; he 
sat by my side during the greater part of the concert, and do 
you know, it seems so strange, but we have precisely the same 
tastes; he liked the music I like; we seem to have one mind 
between us. How beautiful it is to meet with some one who 
understands you.^^ 

Lady Hilda listened, quite uncertain what to do. If she 
uttered but one ill-advised word of caution or warning, she 
might put ideas in the young mind' that did not exist; she 
thought anxiously about it and came to the conclusion that it 
was better to say nothing, better not to wake what she hoped 
was still sleeping. 


166 


A THOKK IK HER HEART. 


Another evening — she was getting well then, and would soon 
he able to resume her duties — the duchess came in to see her 
on her return from the opera; again on her lovely face, she . 
saw the dawn of love. 

‘‘I have seen my crusader again,^^ she said. She had 
fallen into the fanciful habit of calling him by this name, be- 
cause of his resemblance to a favorite picture of hers. He 
came to my box; and do you know, Mamie, we agree about . 
plays just as we did about music. 

He? beautiful face was all in a glow, her eyes bright as stars; . 
the white jeweled hands trembled with excitement. 

‘‘ What opera was it?'’^ asked Lady Hilda, suddenly, and the; 
duchess sat silent without one word of answer. 

She had quite forgotten, or had she never known. A hot, 
flush covered her face, her eyes fell. 

‘‘ I — really — just at this moment I do not quite remember; 
it was ^ Traviata,^ I think. 

“ You really do not remember?^ ^ asked Lady Hilda, with a 
smile, and the duchess, looking like a frightened child, said: 

“ I spent my time in talking; I hardly remember looking at 
the stage. 

“ Talking to whom?^^ asked Lady Hilda. 

“ To — to — I told you, Mamie, the crusader. Did you not 
understand 

. ‘‘ Yes, I understand now,^^ she could not say any more, for 
the duchess was easily frightened, and she did not want to dis- 
courage her confidence. “ Tell me,^^ she said, gently, ‘‘ what 
your friend, the crusader, as you call him, has talked about 

The loveliest light came on the sweet face, the daintiest flush 
covered it. 

‘‘ Would you really like to hear?^^ she said. He talks so 
beautifully; his ideas are all so noble and so grand. 

She talked on rapidly, telling Lady Hilda all that her friend 
had said. 

“ You would like him so much,” she said. ‘‘ I am longing 
to introduce him to you. He has had a great sorrow in his 
life, but he did not tell me what it was.’"’ 

Lady Hilda thought all night about this; she saw so plainly 
the gradual change. 

“ What is coming over my child-wife?^ ^ asked the duke, 
one morning. “ You walk instead of dancing, you speak in-' 
stead of singing, you think instead of laughing; what is com- 
ing over you, Lurline?^^ 

“ Have I chaiigedr^^ she said. I did not know it. What 
am I like now 


A THOEiq' IK HER HEART. 16 f 

‘‘ You are more of a woman, and less of a child/^ said the 
duke. 

“ Then you and mamma ought to be pleased/-’ she said. 
“ My being a .child has caused you all kinds of earthly tor- 
ments; has it not, mamma?’ ^ 

My dear Lurline,^’ said Lady Lansmere, “ the duke is 
quite right; you are rapidly losing your childish character, and 
1 for one congratulate you on the improvement. 

I liked her best as she was,” said the duke. 

And his young wife listened with some concern. Was it 
really as he said — was she growing staid and thoughtful? She 
must talk to her friend and confidante. She went to her 
room. 

‘‘ Miss Dunn, I have come to talk to you,^ ’ she said. “ You 
are the one person whose word I believe implicitly. The duke 
and my mother say that I am changed — is it true?” 

She stood quite still, her white hands clasped, her shining 
eyes bent on Lady Hilda’s face. The answer came very slowly: 

‘‘Yes, you have changed, duchess.-” 

“ For better or worse,” she said. 

“ You must be the best judge of that yourself. You were 
a child a few days ago— now you are far more of a woman.” 

“In what wav?” she asked. “ I do not understand my- 
self.” " • , 

“ You have learned to think,” said Lady Hilda. 

The lovely face brightened. 

“ Yes, that is true,” said the duchess. 

“ You have learned to feel more keenly,” continued Lady 
Hilda. 

“ Yes, it is true also,” was the answer. 

“ Do you feel no difference in yourself?” asked Lady Hilda, 
and the sweet eyes were raised to hers with a new light in 
them. 

“ I feel this difference in myself,” she said — “ that I seem 
to understand better. I used to read a lovely pathetic poem, 
and it said nothing to me — now every word speaks. I seem 
to have learned the art of understanding music, and poetry 
speaks to me with eloquent voice; my eyes seem opened to 
more beauty than I ever saw before— the blue of the sky, the 
green of the grass, the gold of the sand, all mean more.” 

“ May Heaven help you,” said Lady Hilda, involuntarily. 

“ Why,” cried the duchess eagerly — “why do I want 
Heaven’s help?” 

Hut Lady Hilda was silent. The duchess repeated. 

“ Tell me, Mamie, why do I need the help of Heaven?” 


168 A THORN IN HER HEART. 

Lady Hilda looked gravely at her, and then answered : 

‘‘ Because the doom of a woman — to feel, to suffer, and to 
understand — is on you. 

“ Why do you call it a doom?^^ she asked, eagerly. I 
think it twenty times better to be a woman than to be a child. 
A thousand tfioughts rise in my heart and mind now that 
never came there before — they seem to fill my life, and life 
grows upon me. It is as though a brooklet had changed into 
a deep broad stream. I am not sorry that I am changed. 

But Lady Hilda could not answer — a sudden presentiment 
of evil came over her, that after events justified. 


CHAPTER xxxvni. 

AT THE OPERA. 

“ There is no ball to-night,^ ^ said the Duchess of Nairn 
with a sigh; “ after having been to two every night for the 
last week, Sunday excepted, it will seem strange to be with- 
out one.^^ / 

“ I thought you were going to the opera, said Lady Hilda. 

“ I shall go if you will go with me for the whole evening; I 
can not get on with mamma; she is always teasing me. I 
must not do this, and I had better do that. What is the use 
of being Duchess of Nairn if I can not do as I like?^^ 

“ You do as you like, then, when you are with me?^'’ said 
Lady Hilda. 

“ You do not annoy me -as mamma does; she treats me as a 
baby; she counts how many minutes I am with Lord Vesey, 
how many with Captain Norton, then preaches about pru- 
dence. I am prudent. I do what I like, and I am quite sure 
that I should not like anything which was not prudent and 
proper. 

“ That is a novel method of reasoning, said Lady Hilda, 
with a smile. “ I feel much better to-day, and shall be much 
pleased to go to the opera this evening. 

The duchess bent her golden head and kissed the beautiful 
face in a sudden transport. 

‘‘ I am so glad,^"" she said. “ I wanted to go, but I did not 
care to go with mamma. Madame Antolina sings to-night.’^ 

‘‘ Who is Madame Antolina?^^ asked Lady Hilda. 

The duchess held up her little white hands in wonder. 

Do you not know? I thought every one knew Madame 
Antolina*; she is the loveliest actress and the sweetest singer on 
the stage; she married an Italian prince three years ago, and 


A THORK IK HER HEART. 


169 


has just obtained a divorce. People say she loves the hand- 
some young tenor Gastello who sings with her.^^ 

Is that why you are so -anxious to see her?^^ asked Lady 
Hilda, with a smile. 

The duchess laughed. 

“ You have just guessed the truth, she said; ‘‘ that is why 
I want to see her with him. They say she loves him and I 
want to see some one in love; I have never done so yet.'’^ 

“ How do you know that, duchess?'’^ asked Lady Hilda. 

“I do know it — ^you know it. Who among our set ever 
talks about being in love? We never hear the word except in 
jest. If Madame Antolina is really in love with the handsome 
young tenor I should like to see how it affects her.'*' 

“ Your wish shall be gratified to-night,^^ laughed Lady 
Hilda; “ but I do not fancy you will see anything different — 
people seldom show what they feel.^^ 

“ But how can any one hide such a feeling as love?'’’ asked 
the young girl. 

“ I can imagine that it is easily hidden,” replied Lady Hil- 
da, and then she remembered how she had loved her husband 
with a passionate love, and had hidden it from every one. 

Then the duchess sat silent, with the same tender, luminous 
smile on her face that Lady Hilda had seen there so often of 
late — quite silent, the sunbeams touohing her golden head, 
and pla3dng on her white hands. What was it filled her 
thoughts — she who until now had never known what silence 
meant? 

“ What are you thinking about, duchess?” asked Lady Hil- 
da, after a pause. 

The lovely face flushed slightly, and the white lids drooped 
over the sweet eyes. 

‘‘ Shall I tell you?” she answered. ‘‘ I was wondering how 
love first comes to people.” 

‘‘You think a great deal about love,” said Lady Hilda. 
“ How is it?” 

“ I met my crusader at Lady Holloway’s ball last evening, 
and we were talking about love. He said that every creature 
in the. world loved once: happily or unhappily, wisely or un- 
wisely, for good or for evil, every one loved once. Do you 
think that is true, Miss Dunn?” 

“ I can not tell. In return, dear duchess, let me ask you a 
question. Do you think it quite prudent to discuss such a 
question with any gentleman?” 

The bright eyes opened widely, the lovely face took an ex- 
pression of dreamy wonder. 


170 


A THORlSr IN’ HER HEART. 


WThy not? Witli him it is quite right, quite prudent; he 
knows I am very young, and he tries to teach me — he does^ 
indeed.'’^ 

What should he teach you?’^ asked Lady Hilda, gravely. 

‘‘ All kinds of worldly lore. Why, Mamie, I am quite dif- 
ferent to what I was when I first knew him; he has taught 
me to think, to feel, to understand. I seemed to have no soul 
before now."’’ 

Then she stopped abruptly and her face grew crimson. 

“How heart and soul are waking, said Lady Hilda. “ Is 
that it?’^ 

“ I do not know,^’ said the duchess. “ You frighten me, 
you are so grave. My heart and soul must wake sometimes, 
I suppose — why not now?'’^ 

“ Take care of them when they wake,’^ said Lady Hilda. 

The duchess laughed. 

Of course I shall — I am not careless. I am very happy, 
life seems to me so sweet. Ah, thank Heaven, what you call 
my woman ^s soul is waking at last. I did not live before; now 
through heart and soul there is a glorious rush of life and 
happiness. Who would live with a heart asleep. I wonder,'’^ 
she said half to herself, after a pause, “ I wonder if I shall see 
my crusader at the opera to-night:^ ^ 

“ What is his real name?’^ asked Lady Hilda. “ Often as 
you have spoken of him, you have always called him the cru- 
sader, and nothing else. What is his name, duchess?"^ 

Just as she was about to reply. Lady Lansmere entered the 
room, and so the opportunity was lost. Lady Hilda thought 
a great deal about the young duchess. 

it seemed that the time had come when the child was to 
change into the woman, when the dreaming heart and soul 
were to wake, when the girl who .had laughed and danced 
only was to know the meaning of the word love. 

Yet it was a terrible thing—if she learned to love at all, it 
should be her husband. She ought to love no one else, and it 
was hardly natural to expect a girl of seventeen to love a man 
of seventy. Still, he was her husband; and if anything like 
love came to her, it should be for her husband, not for a 
stranger. 

Lady Hilda did not feel happy over it — she had been so well 
content to see the girl-wife happy with her gayeties and pleas- 
ures without any thought of love. 

She had thanked Heaven that it was so; that the girlish 
heart had never known the pain, the torture, the pleasure of 
love. 


A THOEISr IK HER HEART. 


171 


Had it really liappened, or was it her fancy-— had this divine 
madness, this painful pleasure, this happy pain really taken 
hold of the girFs heart? 

It was a thing to pray against, said Lady Hilda to her- 
self, “ a curse to be avoided, a doom to be dreaded. I pray 
Heaven that it may prove to be all my fancy. Yet even the 
sweet face is changed, the music of her laugh was sweeter. I 
am right, and if it be so. Heaven help her. She will not love 
by halves. 

All through that day she watched the duchess keenly, and 
with that watching her heart sunk. She was so completely 
changed for the better. Lady Hilda could not help admitting 
that the dawn of love gave a tenderness and sweetness to her 
face that was irresistible. Her beauty was enhanced a hundred 
fold by the sweet and gracious shadow that lay over it. 

She went to the piano and sung some of her favorite songs. 
Ho question as to whether the soul had awakened or not — it 
was another voice. She sung of love, and it came from her 
heart. She took up a book, and Lady Hilda, watching, saw 
the dainty color come and go in her face — the soul was awake 
and trying its powers. 

Once during dinner, the duchess asked Lady Lansmere if 
she thought there would be many to witness the first appear- 
ance for the season of the famous prima-donna. 

“ There will be hundreds who will find no room,^^ said her 
ladyship. 

“ How fortunate,^ ^ cried the duchess, that we have a box 
of our own, Mamie; are you not glad? I wonder if I shall 
see my crusader there?' ' 

“ To whom, my dear, do you give that absurd name?" 
asked the Countess of Lansmere. 

And again the very words were stopped on the lips of the 
young duchess by the entry of a visitor. 

The Duchess of Nairn had never looked more lovely or 
happy than on this evening. She wore a superb dress of blue 
velvet trimmed with pearls, a coronet of pearls shone in the 
golden hair — her face was charming in its animation. 

Lady Hilda looked magnificently beautiful; she was taller, 
more queenly in face, figure, and carriage than her grace of 
Nairn. She wore on this evening a dress of white silk with 
picturesque dashes of crimson. 

The duchess looked at her with admiration. 

“Do you know. Miss Dunn," she said, “that you look 
much more like a duchess than I do. My dear, you have the 
word ‘ patrician " written on you. There will not be a more 


m 


A THORN’ IN HER HEART. 


beautiful or regal lady in that crowded opera-house than you. 
Throw that white opera-cloak over your shoulders. It is well 
for me that I do not fear a rival. 

The duchess had prophesied truly; when those two beauti^ 
ful women sat down every opera-glass was turned to them. 

“ The Duchess of Nairn/ ^ people whispered; “ how lovely 
she is! Who is the lady with her.^ She is more lovely still. 

And the initiated answered that it was Miss Dunn, a relative 
or friend of the duchess — no one knew which. 

They divided attention even with the brilliant prima donna. 

‘‘ I shall give all my attention to Madame Antolina,^^ sM 
the duchess. “ I believe I shall know, by the way in which 
she looks at the tenor, whether she loves him or not. 

She gave herself to a complete watch of every look that 
gifted lady gave. 

“lam puzzled, she said, at last, and Lady Hilda asked: 

“ Why?^^ 

“ She seems to care as much for the applause of the people 
as for him. Now, if I were she, I would sing to him, play to 
him, think of him, add forget there was any one else in the 
wide world. . 

Lady Hilda was more startled than she cared to own by the 
words; she answered, quietly: 

“ Then you would be a very bad actress. An actress, it 
seems to me, must always keep her audience in mind.^^ 

Then she saw that the duchess had taken up her opera- 
glass, and was looking round the house. 

“ If I see my crusader, she said, he will be sure to come 
to us, and I shall be so glad> for I want you to see him. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

“ I SHALL BE JEALOUS OF YOU.’^ 

The opera-house was crowded; it was evidently a gala- 
night; several of the royal family were present, and the boxes 
presented an array of beautiful women, in gorgeous attire — 
blonde and brunette. 

“ I have never/^ said the duchess, “ seem so many beauti- 
ful faces or exquisite toilettes, and, Mamie, look at the jew- 
els.'’^ 

Lady Hilda raised her opera-glass negligently; she looked 
at the stage, where Mme. Antolina was singing, with all the 
grace and fervor of which she was mistress; then she looked 
round the house. Tier after tier, the boxes rose, filled with 


A THORK m HER HEART. 


m 


beautiful women; the lights, the jewels, the innumerable bou- 
quets, the costly dresses, the fair and lovely faces made an 
ensetnble that filled her with admiration. She had seen noth- 
ing so brilliant in her life. 

Then, quite suddenlj', her eyes fell upon a face that startled 
her — the glass trembled in her hand — a man^s face, statuesque 
and handsome, with fair clustering hair, and bright blue eyes, 
his mouth hidden by a fair mustache. Ah, surely she knew 
that face. 

She trembled and grew pale as with sudden fear. Why 
should the face of a stranger affect her? She would conquer 
her fancy, and look at it again. 

Again the white hands raised the opera-glass, and this time, 
as she looked at that handsome face, a low cry that was half a 
sob came to her lips. She knew it — the white, broad brow, 
with its clusters of hair; the head so proudly set, so proudly 
carried; the proud, clear eyes that looked at everything with 
calm indifference; the well-built, manly figure, with its easy 
grace; the air of grand seigneur that became him so well. It 
was he; there was no other such face — earth held but the one. 
It was as surely lAr husband, XiOrd Dunhaven, as that she was 
living and looking at him. She laid the opera-glass down, 
and tried to steady the beating of her heart; her face grew 
deadly pale. The duchess looked at her in alarm. 

“ Are you ill, Mamie?^^ she asked, in sweet, eager tones. 

“ No, it is nothing but the heat; pray do not notice it,” 
said Lady Hilda. 

Yet her heart beat so that her whole framb trembled, her 
face was white as death, the strength seemed to have gone 
from her; but she could not go, she could not leave him; she 
must look again at the face she worshiped — the face that made 
heaven for her. 

She steadied her hands while she raised the glass. He was 
standing looking at the stage, and she watched him in silence. 

As she looked at him, her love seemed to rise in a passion- 
ate worship. How she loved him — how every hair of his head 
was dear to her — how her heart seemed to go from her and 
cling to him. 

“ My love, my husband, she whispered to herself, and the 
very words seemed to bring her nearer to him. All her life 
seemed to pass in review as she looked at him— the gray sea 
and the yellow sands where she had walked and talked with 
him; the darkling sky underneath which they had stood for 
those few words; Lady DareFs house, where she had learned 
to love him, and he had tolerated her. She lived again 


174 


A THOEK IK HEE HEAET. 


through the anguish of the hour in which she had heard him 
with shame say, “ It was the money he needed/'’ She saw the 
church wherein they had been married — the steamboat in 
which she, all unknown to him, had bidden him a life-long 
adieu. Once more the bitter smart y)f the old pain came back 
to her — the despair and the anguish; yet how she loved him, 
great Heaven ! how she loved him ! 

Some one came and spoke to him, touched him on the arm, 
and the earl, raising his head, answered with a quiet smile. 
How well she remembered that gesture, that quiet smile; once 
or twice it had been given to her; a sudden jealousy seized 
her, that any one else should touch him, and speak to him, 
while she, his wife, sat there powerless to do either — sat there 
dead to him in life. 

Then, as she watched him still further, she saw in him a 
restlessness, a certain searching expression, as though he were 
always looking for something he never found. How she loved 
him, how her heart went out to him — for one kind look from 
those dear eyes, for one kiss from his lips, she would have 
given her life. > 

‘‘ He is my own,^^ she said, asHhough she would fain excuse 
her great love even to herself. ‘‘I am his wife, yet I may 
never speak to him while I live. 

A terrible longing to be near him, t(t touch the white strong 
hands, came over her — a passionate longing for one word, one 
look — a longing so great that her heart burned, and hot tears 
rose in her eyes^ Her whole soul was torn with emotion ; she 
loved him so well that she would have given her life to have 
spoken to him only once. 

And so at last she saw him again; she had left him when 
her anger was at its height — when the cold, scornful words he 
had spoken were indeed a dagger in her heart; she had left 
him when anger gave her strength, and now she saw him 
again. The fierce, hot anger had gone then, and the passion- 
ate love remained. If the time were to come over again, she 
would not leave him, she would linger by his side until she 
gained his love. It was too late to think of that now, she had 
taken her part, and she was dead to him through all time. 

Then, even while her loving glance seemed to infold him, 
some one came and spoke to him, and they went away. She 
laid down her opera-glass and tried to calm each nerve and 
pulse. 

‘‘Mamie,^^ said the duchess, kindly, ‘‘ are you quite sure 
that you do not feel ill: 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


175 


‘‘I do not see my crusader here this evening,” said the 
duchess; “ and that is strange; he loves music — and — he — said 
he should come.’^ 

“ The house is so crowded,” said Lady Hilda, “ perhaps he 
is here, but you can not see him.'’^ 

“ Not see him,^l repeated the duchess — “ I — not see him — 
why, I should see him if fifty thousand others were present. 
Her sweet, frank eyes opened in wonder. 

“ Not see him,” she repeated. ‘‘ What a strange idea, 
Mamie! I see his face before me all day long, how could I 
miss it here?” 

“ AVhy do you see it all day?” asked Lady Hilda, trying to 
sjieak calmly, yet dreading the answer. 

No cloud came over the beautiful young face as Lurline, 
Duchess of Nairn, turned to her companion. 

Why do I see it?” she said. Ah, I can not tell you, I 
do not know. Perhaps it is handsomer than all the other 
faces I know — it has struck me more.” 

A few minutes of silence, then the duchess said, gently, in 
a tone of perfect content: 

“ There he is — look, Mamie, there is my crusader. I am 
so glad. How bright the lights are to-night — how beautiful 
the music! I am so happv! He is sure to come and see me.” 

Where is he?” asked Lady Hilda.. 

‘‘ Look at the fifth box on the second tier; he is there, 
speaking to an elderly lady with two young girls. Do you see?” 

Slowly the beautiful eyes followed in the direction the 
duchess indicated; they rested there for some moments with 
an expression of dire alarm, then they turned slowly to the 
duchess. 

“I see no one there,” she said, but the words died on her 
lips. 

“ How strangely your voice sounds, Mamie. Not see him, 
surely you can not mistake. Look at the handsome Saxon 
face and clustering hair — that is my crusader. ” 

Lady Hilda was quite silent for some minutes; it seemed to 
her that time itself stood still. She tried to steady her trem- 
bling lips, to speak in a natural ^tone of voice. 

‘‘ What is his name?” she asked; “ you have never told me 
yet.” 

“ His name? — Lord Dunhaven. How strange that I should 
never have mentioned it! What do you think of him?” 

“ So that is 3^our crusader?” said Lady Hilda, after a short 
pause. 

Yes,” said the duchess, proudly; “ that is my crusader, 


176 


A THORK m HER HEART. 


You remember the picture at Woodheaton — the knight with 
the lily on his shield, standing on the battle-field watching the 
setting sun. 

‘‘ Yes, I remember it/^ said Lady Hilda, slowly. 

‘‘ Then you can see the likeness as well as I,” said the 
duchess. 

“ Yes, I see the likeness,^’ she replied. 

Lurline, Duchess of Nairn, laughed aloud. 

“ Mamie, she said, “ what has come to you? You seem 
to be quite dazed, and that is unlike you. 

“lam dazed,^’ said Lady Hilda. “ Pray excuse me, I will 
try to steady myself. 

“ It is the lights and the music,’' said her grace. “ But 
now tell me, Mamie, what do you think of my friend? Do 
you wonder that his face haunts me — have you seen one like 
it?” 

“ No — never,” was the answer. “ Lord Dunhaven, did you 
say?” and in spite of herself her voice trembled and her lips 
quivered. 

“ Yes, Lord Dunhaven. I find even the name beautiful — 
Leonard, Earl of Dunhaven; he has been earl for some three 
or four years — before then he was plain Leonard Dare. ’ ’ 

“ I like that name best,” said Lady Hilda, hardly conscious 
of her own words. 

“Do you? I do not. Earl of Dunhaven — I think it is the 
most beautiful title in the peerage,” said the duchess. “ He 
will be sure to come to speak to me, and then I will introduce 
him to you. I am sure you will like him, and he is sure to ad- 
mire you. Perhaps — it is more likely than not — perhaps he 
will admire you more than he does me. I shall be jealous of 
you then, Mamie, and it will be for the first time. ” 

“ It is not likely,” said Lady Hilda. 

Ah, dear Heaven! how little any one knew. He had said that 
there was nothing attractive in her — nothing to win any man’s 
love. If she could but tell the duchess tliat! 

“ See,” said her grace, “ he has bowed to me — he sees me 
— he is coming. Oh, Mamie, I am so pleased! I like talking 
to him so much. I wonder if you will be pleased with him? 
I can not tell why, but I feel quite anxious about it.” 


CHAPTER XL. 

A FACE WITHOUT A CRIMSON" SCAR. 

There was a minute of such suspense that Lady Hilda 
hardly lived through it; the lights^ the flowers^ the fair faces 


A THORN IN HER HEART, 


177 


of the women, all seemed one jeonfused mass; the music 
sounded like one terrible crash. She held with firm grasp the 
ledge of the opera-box, or she must have fallen fainting on the 
ground; she clinched her hands until sfreat red marks blis- 
tered them. Could it be possible that she was to see him 
again — to look into his face — to hear him speak? Oh, 
Heaven! That the pain should not kill her, the pleasure drive 
her mad! How was she to bear it? 

Then the door opened slowly. She saw her husband^s 
handsome face, his fair head, the clustering hair, the bright 
eyes. It seemed to her in that moment of supreme emotion 
that life itself came to an end. She closed her eyes, for she 
felt that it was easier to die than to look in his face. 

Then — oh, Heaven! That the pain and pleasure did not 
slay her! She heard his voice; once more she saw the blue 
waters of the Channel; she saw the deck of the steamer, his 
face so careless of her; she heard his adieu to her, that he 
had not dreamed was the real farewell; all this came to her as 
she heard his voice again — every tone of it fell like a flame on 
her heart. 

“ How strange that I did not see you before !^^ he was say- 
ing): “ I have been looking for you ever since I came in.^'’ 

“ Perhaps you have but just come in,^^ said the duchess; 
‘‘ better late than not at all— you are always welcome. Lord 
D unhaven, let me introduce you to my friend and compan- 
ion, Miss Dunn.^^ 

fsow was the crucial moment. If she could look up with a 
careless smile and careless words, all would go well with her; 
but it seemed to her that her heart had stopped beating, that 
her face had grown white and stiff, that the life was leaving 
her lips, and that she must cry out, “ He is my husband — -I 
love him!^^ then fall dead at his feet. 

“ Mamie, said the sweet voice of the young duchess, “ do 
you not hear? Have you fallen asleep amid all these sweet 
sounds?’"’ 

She made the supreme effort and saved herself; with a reso- 
lute will, she beat back the tide of passion that had almost 
mastered her. She looked up. He was gazing at her, and 
the glance of his eyes seemed to go through her heart and 
soul; her very lips turned white. He did not recognize her for 
one half moment; there was a puzzled look on his face, then 
it vanished and gave place to calm indifference. 

Miss Dunn,” said the duchess, “ let me introduce to you 
Loi’d PunhaiYen.^’ 


178 


A THOEN IN HEE HEAET. 


He bowed ; the handsome proud head that she remembered 
so well was bent before her. 

“ I am delighted to find you better. Miss Dunn,^^ he said; 
‘‘ the duchess has been bewailing your illness. 

Indeed, I have,^^ said the frank, gay voice. “ Life is 
quite a different thing to me when Miss Dunn is well. Now, 
Lord Dunhaven, tell me what you think of madame? We 
said that we should compare notes. 

Then they forgot her; the beautiful duchess leaned back 
in her chair with an air of supreme happiness, the earl bend- 
ing over her, talking to her, and Lady Hilda, the thorn in her 
heart paining more and more, sat and watched them. 

There was no mistake about it. They might be and proba- 
bly were quite unconscious of it themselves, but they were 
lost to the whole world. Looking in that most beautiful face, 
the earl only remembered it, and she, in talking to him, quite 
forgot all besides. Probably they were quite unconscious of 
the fairy-land wherein they lived,' ignorant of their own senti- 
ments, innocent of all jevil; nevertheless it was impossible not 
to see and understand -that they were the world to each other. 

This conviction came home to Lady Hilda with a feeling like 
to despair. She would have been grieved in any case/dis- 
tressed and agitated to have seen the beautiful young girl she 
had learned to love so well in any danger; but, above ail others 
in the world, that the one with whom she stood in danger 
should be her own husband. 

It was the most cruel irony of fate; it v/as so cruel that, as 
she sat there outwardly calm, her own heart rose in hot rebell- 
ion against it. It was too cruel. 

They were so engrossed with each other that she could 
watch them at her leisure. She saw the dainty bloom deep- 
en on the face of the duchess, the proud eyes were deepened 
by the love-light in them, the sweet lips wore the sweetest 
smile; it was no longer the dawn, it was the very realization 
of love. So she watched them at her leisure. She had never 
seen before on her husband's handsome face what she saw 
noW' — that look of rapt devotion, of earnest love. How it 
changed him; how his eyes smiled as they looked into hers; 
how tender the lines were round his mouth; when he had 
looked at her, they had always been so hard and cold. 

It did not seem to her that they listened much to the music. 
Some one else came in and joined in the conversation, but it 
was evident no third pesron was wanted — the intruder went 
out again, 


A THOEK IN HER HEART. 179 

Some few minutes later. Lady Hilda, whose senses were 
painfully acute, heard the earl say to the duchess: 

‘‘ What an exquisitely beautiful face your friend has. I 
have never seen one more lovely, more noble. What did you 
call her?^^ 

“ Miss Dunn — that is her name,^^ she replied. 

“Dunn?’’ he repeated. “ I do not know the name at all. 
I must be mistaken. I thought the face slightly familiar.” 

“ Perhaps you have seen her before,” said the duchess. 

“Ho, I have not; it is the first time. I am sure I should 
remember it; but I have seen some one like her.” 

“ Who is it?” asked the duchess, anxiously. 

“ 1 can not tell; I do not remember. It may be a mistake 
of mine. We often see faces that strike us as familiar. Your 
friend is very beautiful. ” 

“ If you say that again, I shall be jealous,” said the duch- 
ess, with a light laugh that yet had something like pain in it. 

He turned to look at her, and Lady Hilda saw that glance 
so full of love, of adoration, that she trembled as she saw it. 

“ Nay,” he said; “ if the moon shines bright by night, does 
that take away from the brightness of^the sun at midday? 
Your face has been my sun ever since I saw it. I should not 
use such a word as beautiful to describe it. ’’ 

“ What word would you use?” she asked, her sweet eyes 
drooping. 

“ I should say that your face was like the fairest fiower that 
ever bloomed,” he said. «• 

She smiled again, happily, proudly, as a child who loves 
praise. 

“ Like what flower?” she asked; “ every flower has a name. ” 

“ Ah, if I could say. I see lilies and roses blended. I see 
eyes that have the hue of the heart ’s-ease. I think of some 
lines I would quote to you if I dare. ” 

“ You may quote what you will,” she said, gently. 

He continued: 

“ There is a garden in her face 
Where roses and sweet lilies blow; 

A heavenly paradise is that place — ” 

She interrupted him: 

“ Say no more— quote no more, rather. You must be 
flattering me.” 

“ I am not,” he said. “ Nor if I were to quote all the 
poetry that has ever been written would it be a flattery to 
you?” 


180 A THORK IK HER HEART. 

“ You say such nice things to me/^ she said, laughingly; 
“ that every one else seems so abrupt after you. Now I want 
you to talk to Miss Dunn — I am determined that she shall 
like you.^^ 

“ Why?" he asked, bending over her; and again the sweet 
eyes drooped before his ardent glance. 

You ought to understand the reason," she replied, with- 
out looking up. 

He was silent for a few minutes, and then he said, gently: 

‘‘ I understand; I will do your bidding." 

He rose and went to the side of the box where Lady Hilda 
was sitting. Her heart beat, and her face grew deadly white. 
If he knew — if he only knew! ' He, with the chivalrous cour- 
tesy natural to him, took his seat by her side. 

“ I am sorry to hear that you have been ill," he said. 
“ You must have felt it a privation to be unable to leave the 
house. " 

If the whole world had been given to her, she could not 
have answered hini; - she d^re not even turn her face to him, 
lest he should read the distress there. He thought that she was 
shy, and wondered that so beautiful a woman — one, too, who 
must be well accustomed to the world — should be shy. He 
resolved to try some other line. 

‘‘ Do you admire Madame Antolina, Miss Dunn?" he asked. 
She forced herself to answer him; but it seemed to her that 
her lips had grown stiff and cold — they would not open; the 
voice that came through them was finlike her own. 

“ I admire her beauty and her genius,^"’ she answered. 

“ But not herself?" he said, quickly. 

“ Are not her beauty and genius part of herself?-’^ she 
asked. 

“ Yes — part but not all; more than beauty and genius must 
go toward the making up of a self. You ^mire her acting, 
of course?" 

“ I think it is perfection," she replied, and then she looked 
resolutely at the stage. 

Oh, if he would but cease speaking to her — if he would but 
take his eyes from her face; she was suffering torture, yet 
could not show it. 

His eyes fell suddenly on the crimson scar that still marked 
her temple. 

“You will laugh at me as fanciful," he said; “ but your 
face seemed so familiar to me the first moment I saw it to- 
night." 


A THORK m HER HEART. 


181 


“ Did it?^^ she asked, praying Heaven he might not see the 
quiver that passed over her face. ‘ 

‘‘ Yes, but the fancy has gone now. Yet in my life, I feel 
sure that I have come across a face like' yours; but — ” then 
he paused for half a minute — “ but,^^ he added, ‘‘ I know 
you will not think me rude — it was a face without that little 
crimson scar. ” 

Slie tried to laugh as she looked up at him. 

Then it was not mine?^’ she said. 

And he laughingly answered: 

“ No, most certainly it was not yours. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

‘‘why should you pity him? 

Lady Hilda never remembered how she reached home; 
how that interview ended; how she recovered her self-posses- 
sion, and talked to the duchess and her husband. She did not 
seem to regain possession of her senses until she was in the 
carriage with the duchess, going home. 

“ I am not going to talk,^’ said the duchess; “ I shall watch 
the stars and think. You do the same, Mamie, then we shall 
not tire each other. 

Lady Hilda w.as only too pleased with the permission; she 
had plenty to think of; she wanted to say the words over to 
herself, and as yet she had no chance. 

She had met him again — she had seen and spoken to the 
husband whom she was never to call husband, and she found 
him in love with the duchess. There was no mistake about 
it. She was not well versed in love-lore; she had seen but 
little of love; yet if it were ever written anywhere, it was in 
the face of the man who had bowed over the duchesses chair 
that evening. 

Keen pain took possession of her — ^keen, sharp pain; keen, 
bitter disappointment. When in her dreams she had thought 
of him, it was always that he had some regret over her, that 
he was saddened by her loss. She had never fancied him lov- 
ing any one else— such a thought had not entered her mind; 
and now^ that above all other people, he should love the 
duchess. 

What a tangled web life is. She was disappointed too, that 
he had so entirely failed in recognizing her. True, she would 
have been in great trouble and embarrassment if he had done 
so; yet, it would have had a bright side; she would have known 


18 S 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


then that her face had lived in his memory; as it vv^as he had 
completely forgotten her. He did not even know of whom 
she reminded him. 

“ Ifc teaches one the value of human love/^ she safd; ‘‘ I 
have lavished my love, my heart, my soul on him — for him, I 
am content to be dead in life — and yet he in his turn has for- 
gotten me. ” 

She did not like to look the situation full in the face, it was 
too terrible. How could such a love end. She sighed so 
deeply, that the duchess looked up in wonder. 

“Mamie, why are you sighing?^' she said. “You are 
tired. We will not sit up to-night. We will have some hot 
coffee in your room. I do not know why people say that 
coffee keeps them awake. I know that it always sends me to 
sleep. 

When they reached home, she looked curiously in that 
white face. 

“Miss Dunn, you have overtired yourself,” she said. 
“ How, not another word until you have rested. We will go 
to your room. ” 

Lady Hilda^s room was warm and brilliantly lighted. The 
young duchess standing there with the sheen of her golden 
hair, the light in her Jewels, the dainty bloom on her face, 
looked like some beautiful picture just come down from its 
frame. With her own white Jeweled hands, she took off Lady 
Hilda^’s opera cloak, and made her sit down in an easy-chair; 
with a laughing gesture, she laid the beautiful head back on 
the velvet cushion. Then she drew a footstool and sat down 
at Lady Hilda^s feet. She laid her golden head on Lady Hil- 
da's knee. 

“ I am so happy,” she said, gently; “I never knew that 
life could be so sweet. 

Lady Hilda thought to herself how many sweets were 
poisoned, but she was afraid to say anything; if she tried to 
give any warning it might lead to the very evil she wished to 
avoid. 

There was a silence between them for some- little time; the 
fire-light played over them. Phillis brought the hot coffee, 
and the duchess smiled as she sipped it from the dainty Sevres 
cup. 

“I call this real comfort,” she said, “ and I love com- 
fort.” 

Suddenly she said: 

“ What do you think of Lord Duhhaven, Miss Dunn? By 
the way, how strange it seems that the first part of his name 


A THORK IN HER HEART. 


183 


should be so like yours. You have dropped your spoon. I do 
believe your hands are trembling. What can it be about? 
You are overtired. 

“ No, not now; I am awkward,^^ said Lady Hilda. ‘‘ When- 
ever I hold these precious Sevres cups I am afraid of break- 
ing them. 

It would not matter if you did. Now tell me, what do 
you think of Lord Dunhavenr^^ 

“ 1 saw him for but so short a time, I can not judge/ ^ said 
Lady Hilda. 

“I judged when I had only seen him for five minutes,^^ 
cried the duchess. ‘‘ I said to myself, then, that he was the 
handsomest and noblest man in the world. 

“ You formed your judgment quickly. He is handsome, 
every one can see that.-’^ 

The sweet young face clouded at this faint praise. 

I have seen handsomer men whom I did not admire at 
all,^^ she said; “ but he is not like them. I see more than 
beauty in his face — it is full of fire, intelligence, poetry. Do 
you not think so? He seems to me grander, more noble, 
than other men. There is something noble in all his thoughts, 
in all his words, and Lady Hilda, whose heart warmed to 
this warm praise of her husband, assented. She was wonder- 
ing if she dare hint at anything in the way of caution. Her 
conscience would not be at ease unless she did so; and yet she 
felt she might do more harm than good. She would try to 
find some way. She looked at the duchess, noting the love 
light in her eyes, noting the lovely flush on her face. 

‘‘ I quite agree with you,’^ she said; “ I think few men are 
equal to Lord Dunhaven. I should imagine that he is a man 
who will leave his mark on the age. Does he interest himself 
in j)olitics?^^ 

“ I think he intends doing so. He told me once that his 
life had been shadowed by a great sorrow, but that he intends 
to forget that sorrow and throw his whole heart and soul into 
work. I am going to be his friend and help him.^^ 

“ What was his sorrow?^’ asked Lady Hilda, sadly. 

“ He has never even hinted at it to me/’ she replied, and 
again there was silence. How Lady Hilda longed for courage 
to break it. She must if ever any good was to be done for the 
soul she loved best on earth. 

‘‘He looks young,'’’ she said; and her voice trembled in 
spite of herself. “ Do you think — do you know if he is mar- 
ried?” 

The duchess raised her eyes to the pale beautiful face. 


184 


A THOKN' m HER HEART. 


‘‘ Yes, he is married; he has never said so, but I believe 
that is the shadow that lies over his life."'^ She did not see 
the sudden pallor that came over the beautiful face. She 
went on: ‘‘I feel quite sure myself that it is so. I was talk- 
ing to Lady Hillerton the other day about it, and she said that 
there was something very queer about Lord Dunhaven^s 
wife.^^ 

“ Queer,^^ said the faint voice. “ In what way?^^ 

“ I hardly know; Lady Hillerton told me they did not live 
together, and when that is the case, there is always something 
wrong, is there not?” 

“ I should imagine so,” was the low. reply. 

“ And as there is nothing wrong in him, or over him — not 
the faintest shadow of blame, he being honorable, chivalrous, 
and sweet-tempered, the fault you see must lie with her. ” 

‘‘That is how the world argues, I suppose,^ ^ said Lady 
Hilda. 

“ It does in this case, and it argues truly, Mamie, I am 
sure of it.^^ 

“ So,” said Lady Hilda, “ there is then a Lady Hunhaven? 
Where is she?” 

Her eyes drooped as she asked the question she alone could 
answer. 

. “ Ho one quite knows — I tell you there is some mystery 
about her. Lady Hillerton told" me that they were married 
and went abroad. She, Lady Dunhaven, has never returned 
to England. Lady Darel — that is the earFs mother — says 
that she will never return to England, as the climate does not 
suit her.” 

“ That is surely no fault of hers,” said Lady Hilda. 

“Ho, that fact taken by itself is certainly no fault; but 
Lady Hillerton says the strangest part is that no one ever sees 
her. If she is living in Rome or Florence, how is it that none 
of the English who crowd there ever see her or hear of her?^^ 

“ Perhaps she leads a very quiet and retired life,” said Ladv 
Hilda. 

“ It may be so; but another thing -is no one ever hears her 
husband speak of her. ” 

“ That is his fault,” said Lady Hilda, with an indignant 
blush. 

“ Hardly; he is so kind that I am quite sure he would love 
his wife if he could. I knew he was married before I saw 
him — it was that which made me SO sorry for him, and he is 
sorry for me.” 


A THORN' IH HER HEART. 


185 


Why should you pity him? How do you know that his 
wife is not some good loving girl for whom he does not care?^^ 

“ I feel that he is to he pitied/^ replied the duchess. I 
can not tell you why. Lady Hillerton did hint at something 
which I hope is not true, but I fear is.^^ 

What is that?^’ asked Lady Hilda. 

“ If it be true, it will explain everyt-hing,^^ said the duchess; 
“ why his life is shadowed, why he ^never mentions her, why 
no one ever sees or hears of her — it would explain all, 

Lady Hilda looked at her in a fever of suspense. 

‘‘ What is it?^-* she asked; and the keen tone of pain in her 
voice struck the duchess. 

“ You are positively growing interested in him,^^ she said. 
“ I will tell you what it is, although I gave Lady Hillerton 
my solemn word never to mention it; but I will tell you every- 
thing, Mamie. The real truth, that which people believe to 
be the solution to the mystery, is this — that Lady Dunhaven 
is in some insane asylum, abroad. That explains everything. 
It is not likely, in that case, he would ever care to speak about 
her.'’^ 

Lady Hilda was silent — her burning indignation prevented 
her from speaking. So this was how they accounted for her 
absence. It was some minutes before she could speak, then 
she asked: 

‘‘Who is it tells this story— Lord D unhaven ?^^ 

“No,"’’’ cried the duchess, eagerly, “he has never named 
her. It was Lady Darel who hinted it to Lady Hillerton. 
She did not say it in so many plain words, but she hinted at 
it. I think it is true. 

“ Poor wife,^'’ said Lady Hilda, in a tone of profound pity. 

“ Yes, it is sad for her, but it is more sad for him, Mamie. 

I shall always be his friend, and try to make it up to him. ” 

She looked as serenely unconscious of all danger as a child 
who longs for the scarlet fruit whose seeds are death. 


CHAPTEE XLII. 

^‘a sorrow that clouds my LIEE.-’^ 

“ Miss Duntk,^^ said the duchess one morning, “ make 
yourself very pretty, and come down to lunch. You will never 
guess who is here.^^ 

“ I am a bad guesser,^^ said Lady Hilda. 

The fair young face, all bright with happiness, was raised 
to hers. 


186 


A THOBK IK HER HEART. 


‘‘ Lord Dunhaven/’ she cried. ‘‘ The duke met him some- 
where yesterday, and liked him so well that he has invited 
him to come and see us when he will. He has asked him to 
Fernhurst for the shooting.^’ 

It was all plain to Lady Hilda. The earl had purposely 
sought the duke, and had laid himself out to please him, the 
result being, as a matter of course, great success. 

Could anything be more delightful,'^'’ cried the duchess. 
“ I never thought of such happiness as seeing him at our own 
house, and at Fernhurst too. When the duke told me, I was 
so pleased I almost made him waltz with me— can you im- 
agine that?^^ 

‘‘ What did he say?” asked Lady Hilda, wondering if her 
exhibition of delight had aroused his jealousy. 

He laughed and said that he wished me to be surrounded 
by nice friends. Was it not good of him?” 

The unsuspicious trusting faith of the old duke touched Lady 
Hilda. There was no suspicion in his mind. 

Lady Hilda knew that she. was dead to Lord I) unhaven for 
all time; that no chance of winning, his love would ever be 
hers. She knew that he had once pronounced her unattract- 
ive, had said she would never win any man^s love^ — that now all 
his admiration was given to the duchess. Yet, womanlike, she 
studied how to look her best.’ A beautiful dress of pale gray 
silk and velvet, fitting her exquisite figure to perfection; a 
scarlet fiower in her breast, and one in her hair; then she went 
down to see her husband, who did not know her as his wife. 

She asked herself as she went down the great marble stair- 
case, whether she was in a dream, or whether it was possible 
that the Lady D unhaven was going to meet her husband. 

She heard the musical sound of his laughter as she opened 
the door; he was talking to the duke, and the duchess sat near 
them. She saw the start of admiration that he could not re- 
press when his eyes fell upon her. 

He bowed, placed a chair for her near the duchess and re- 
sumed his conversation with the duke. 

With her keen artistic eyes. Lady Hilda noted the difference 
between the two men— the duke, with his white hair, dim eyes, 
and stooping figure, so old, so inert; the young earl, with his 
bright eyes, clustering hair, eloquent face, and grand figure. 
They presented a perfect contrast. 

Then looking on the fair sweet face of the duchess, so 
young, so childlike, she said to herself that those who sold 
her — sold her youth and beauty for title and wealth — had most 
cruelly wronged her. 


187 


A THOKK IK HEE HEAET. 

She had half wondered to herself, whether the duke^s pres- 
ence would make any difference to them — whether they would 
talk and laugh with the same freedom before him. She found 
they did exactly the same, and the duke looked on with enjoy- 
ment. 

“It is I who am overwatchful, oversuspicious, over jeal- 
ous,'’ she said to herself. “ The duke sees all I saw, yet finds 
no harm in it. English gentlemen trust one another.^^ 

During luncheon it was decided that the duchess should give 
her first ball, and her delight knew no bounds. The duke 
seemed only too happy to leave all the trouble to Lord Dun- 
haven ^s hands; he looked at him with a sleepy smile. 

“You know, he said, “much better than I, who is in 
town — who is who. Help the duchess with her list. I always 
take a siesta after lunch.'’'’ 

“ Let us go into the library,” said the duchess; “ then we 
can write out as many lists as we like.^^ 

It was a lovely afternoon; spring seemed for once to have 
borrowed the warmth and beauty of summer. The long 
French windows were open; the sunbeams came pouring in; 
the western wind was filled with the sweet odor of mignonette. 

Lord Dunhaven went to the open window, and placed chairs 
for the two ladies. 

“ Let us have one hour of elysium,^ he said, “before we 
begin business. Shall we read poetry or speak it?^^ 

“ Speak it,'’^ said the duchess, with her sweet smile, “ some 
people have the art of turning their most common words to 
poetrj^^^ 

Her eyes said so plainly that she meant him, that he 
thanked her for the compliment; and then while the sunbeams 
fell ofer them, in the deep bay windows, and the wind brought 
them the sweet fragrance of the mignonette, they sat quiet, as 
though the very spell of love lay on them. The earl half sat, 
half knelt at the duchesses feet; the perfume from the flowers 
in her breast and in her hair came to him, the light of her 
lovely eyes shone on his face, her own — daintily beautiful as a 
flower— drooped near him. Their very^ silence was to them 
full of eloquence. 

It seemed, to the unhappy young wife, she could hear the 
beating of their hearts. Ah, Heaven, how she had longed for 
his love— how she had wept for it, prayed for it; how she had 
lavished all she had in the world to win it, and had failed. 
Here it was given to another whose hands were not free to re- 
ceive it. She looked at them for some minutes, they were so 


188 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


splendidly suited one to another; then she looked out'over the 
budding trees to the far blue sky. 

Lord Dunhaven roused her. 

‘‘ Miss Dunn/' he said, “ who is it that you remind me of? 
As you sit now, with your profile turned to me, I could vow 
that I had seen you. In some vague way, the rush of the 
waves is mixed up with your face, yet I can never have met 
you at the sea-side." 

A keen fear passed over her — what if he should recognize 
her, she who had resolutely chosen to he dead to him for ever- 
more. 

‘‘ You are fanciful," she said, coldly; ‘‘ I have never been 
to any fashionable sea-side resort, and pray. Lord Dunhaven, 
do not look at me or talk about having seen me before — ^it 
makes me feel nervous." 

The duchess laughed and Lord Dunhaven apologized. Then 
the sweet spell of silence fell on them: again the wind wliis- 
pered of the spring flowers and the budding leaves. 

“ Ah, if life were all such a dream," sighed the earl. 

‘‘ I should never wish to awake," said the duchess, but the 
dark eyes of Lady Hilda turned slowly to her husband. 

“ Life a dream," she said. “ Hay. One may make life a 
poem, never a dream. " 

“ Why?" he asked. 

“ Because to dream one must sleep, and life should be made 
of action and rest." 

‘‘ You are a philosopher. Miss Dunn," he said, looking at 
her with a bright smile; ‘‘yet you are right; but this is so 
sweet a dream, made up of sunshine, perfume, and — I say it 
with all reverence — fair faces — so sweet a dream. And you 
think life may be made a poem?" 

“ Yes, I know some lives that are all poetry. I know one 
life that is like a grand passionate epic poem — a life that holds 
in it a great sacrifice, a great love that will never be known. 
I know no truer poem, than this life of which I speak. " 

They never dreamed it was her own. She looking with 
clear sad eyes, knew«ihat, let her say what she would, they 
would not think of her. 

“ My life has been a poem," said the duchess; “ or rather, 
I should say that it has been a sunshiny rhyme. It takes 
sorrow to make poetry, does it not, Mamie?" 

“ Yes," she replied, quietly, “ there is no poetry without 
it." 

“lam thinking of my life," said the earl, “ wondering if 
there has been any poetry in it," 


4 


A THORK IN HER HEART. 189 

Tell US about said the duchess, and we will decide. 

“ There is so little to tell. I am my mother’s only child, 
and I was always brought up to know that at some time I 
should be Earl of Dunhaven. My dear mother has the repu- 
tation of being the proudest woman in England, and she did 
not teach me humility; I will say no more* than that.” 

“ One can easily see it,” said the duchess, laughingly. 

But no smile curved the lips of his wife; she was listening 
intently, her head bent, her whole heart given to his words. 
He saw her interest, and was flattered by it. He went on: 

“ I was sent to Eton and to Oxford, I made the grand tour. 
Then the earl died, the poor old earl, and I took his place. 
There is no poetry yet.” 

“ None,” said the duchess. 

“ But then,” he said, “ there came — well, not poetry, but^a 
little romance — I can not tell you what it was, nor ought I 
perhaps to call it a romance, for the heroine had no romance 
in her. 

“ Was it. love?” cried the young duchess. 

“No,” he answered, gravely, “it was not love, but it 
should have been; out of it grew a great sorrow — a sorrow 
that clouds my life, that makes me desolate, my fireside lonely, 
my home forsaken. ” 

His voice died away as though the words pained him. 
Lady Hilda’s face had grown very pale. 

“ But this sorrow,” she said; “ did it come from your own 
wrong-doing?” 

“ Not quite. At first it came from the injustice and stu- 
pidity of others; then in my turn 1 was hard and cold.” 

How she longed for him to say more — how she thirsted for 
another word from his lips— one that should prove his regret 
and sorrow. She could have knelt and prayed him for it, but 
his thoughts were not with her. She must know whether he 
regretted it or not; she must ask, even if he deem her imperti- 
nent. 

“ I like to hear the different experiences of life,” she said. 
“ Tell me, Lord Dunhaven, over this romance of yours have 
you ever regretted the way in which you acted, let the way 
have been what it might?” 

He looked at her with a frank sad smile. 

“ Yes,” he said; “ most certainly. I have regretted it, not 
once, but a thousand times; were the time to come over 
again, I would. Heaven helping me, do quite differently.” 

And he wondered why she raised her face to the skies, with 
the rapt expression of one who thanks Heaven for a great gift. 


190 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


But when the dressing-bell rang, they were all dismayed to 
find that not one among them had remembered the visiting 
list. 


. CHAPTER 'XLTIL 

^^KISS ME ERE I DIE.^^ 

All day long the sound of those words dwelt in Lady 
Hilda^s heart like the sound of sweetest music. He regretted 
it, he was sorry for his hardness to her, for his cruel coldness; 
he repented of what he had said about her; if the time were to 
come over again he would chauge it all. In the midst of her 
pain, the words came to her like a heavenly charm — he was 
sorry; she had never dreamed of comfort like this. 

* Yet how little he could have known her; how he must have 
avoided looking at her, when they were together, not to know 
her face again, and he did not know it. The vague fancies he 
had spoken of at first had all died away now. The grand ball 
at Hairn House was' one' of the events of the season; the 
duchess, who was delighted over it, declared that neither ex- 
pense nor trouble should be spared. The ball-room was mag- 
nificent with its wealth of flowers, its brilliant lights, and 
superb decorations. The duchess said it was perfect, and the 
duke agreed that if she were content all must be well. 

She was impatient until the evening came. Her ball dress 
had been ordered from Worth and was a model of elegance — 
white silk, elaborately trimmed with flowers and leaves of 
frosted silver, a wreath of frosted flowers and silver leaves for 
the golden hair, a wreath of frosted leaves round the bodice, 
trailing silver leaves woven picturesquely in her dress; she 
looked radiant as a beautiful fairy. The duke insisted that she 
should wear a diamond necklace with diamonds in her hair. 

My dear, I shall look all fire,^^ she said. 

But he insisted and she was not unwilling. The duchess 
herself had chosen Lady Hilda^s ball dress — white satin, em- 
broidered with small golden flowers, and' trimmed with golden 
fringe, and nothing that she could have chosen could have 
suited that queenly, regal loveliness one-half so well. A 
chain of exquisite workmanship was thrown over her neck, 
bracelets of gold clasped the white arms, a golden arrow fast- 
ened the heavy masses of golden-brown hair; they formed the 
most beautiful and graceful contrast, the duchess, so beauti- 
ful, in her loveliness, with her fair face, golden head, her 
dress of white and silver, all set on fire, as it were, with the 


A THOKK IK HER HEART. 


191 

luster of her diamonds. Lady Hilda, like a tall, white lily, 
her dress of gold and white, her queenly face and figure, her 
regal bearing. They stood looking at each other in silence- 
each admiring the other. 

“ We are ‘ rivals," "" said the duchess with a smile, but Lady 
Hilda’s face grew pale. 

Heaven forbid,” she said, Her thoughts had flown 
straight to her husband, the duchess was thinking merely of 
dress. 

We are rivals, indeed,” she said. “You are gold and I 
am silver. I am quite proud of you, Mamie; you look a 
queen. You ought to win some one’s heart to-night. Whose 
shall it be?” 

“ I wish,” thought Lady Hilda to herself, “ that I could 
win the heart that belongs tq^ me; I should be quite happy 
then. ” 

It was a brilliant ball; quite early the rooms were filled with 
a brilliant crowd. But among all the lovely ladies present, 
there was not one to vie with tlie duchess and Lady Hilda. 
Lord Dunhaven was one of the first arrivals; the duke ap- 
peared in the ball-room for half an hour, then thankfully 
made his escape. Lord Dunhaven waltzed once with the 
duchess, then she looked at him with laughing eyes. 

“ It was very pleasant,” she said, “ but we must not dance 
together all night, mon ami. This is my ball, and I have to 
please ever so many tiresome partners.” 

“ I will obey to the letter every wish you utter, duchess,” 
he said. “ I will not ask you again, but I will not dance with 
any one else after you.” 

Her eyes wandered round the room — they brightened sud- 
denly. 

“ I will tell you Vhat would please me,” she said. “ Ask 
Miss Dunn to dance; does she not look beautiful?” 

“ Beautiful, indeed,” he replied. “ She has but one fault 
and that is she is not you. Give me the sweetest flower in 
your bouquet before I go.” 

“ You are always taking my flowers,” she said, with a de- 
licious little pout. 

“ It is the only thing I dare ask for and it soon dies,” he 
answered. 

Then from her bouquet she chose a lovely white spray of 
heath. 

“ You will let it fall, and it will be trampled in the dust,” 
she said, holding it out to him. 

“ The moment you give it to me it will become the most 


192 


A THORK IK HER HEART. 


precious jewel on earth,” he answered; then looking in the 
dainty, lovely young face he said: 

Make it immortal, duchess.'^'’ 

How can I do that,^'’ she asked him. 

“ Place a light kiss on it and it will live forever, he said, 
his face drooping over hers. 

She laid the white flower on her lips and then she held it 
out to him. 

How it can never die,^^ he said; and just on that spot 
where her lips ha(i touched, he laid his own. 

I am strong enough for anything now,” he said; but the 
fair young face looked into his with a wondering smile. 

That is like kissing me,” she said, but Lord Dunhaven 
smiled. 

“ Hay,” he said, ‘‘ duchess, it is not like that.” 

And then he went to Miss Dunn. 

It was so sweet, that first beginning of love, to both of 
them; they were so unconscious of it, so ignorant, so innocent; 
they knew so little arid they thought so little of how it was to 
end; it was Heaven to be together, it was death, to part, but 
neither of them thought or called it love. 

The ball-room was all light and bright to each, because they 
could see each other, and among the crowd their eyes could 
meet. 

Lord Dunhaven went, as the duchess wished him, to Lady 
Hilda. She was sitting near a great group of crimson camelias, 
and they formed a background to the loveliest picture in the 
ball-room. She held a jeweled fan in her hand, which rested 
against her white breast. She was buried in thought and 
started when he spoke to her. 

How beautiful she is,” he thought. If I had never 
seen the Duchess of Hairn, I should say she was the loveliest 
woman in the world.^^ 

‘‘ Miss Dunn,” he said, I have come to ask the favor of 
one waltz with you. Will you grant it?” 

Rather to his surprise, she did not look up with a smiling 
assent, as he had expected. 

I will think of it,” she replied. 

“ And in the meantime, will you graciously allow me a seat 
at your side?” he asked. 


She drew the gleaming folds of her dress aside, and he sat 
down. Ho more could she hold the fan against her white 
breast, for her heart beat and every nerve trembled, while she 
tried to think whether she had nerve to dance with him or 
not. His arm had never been round her, he had never drawn 


A THORN- IN HER HEART. 


193 


lier to his side; would she have self-control now to dance with 
him and not betray herself. Dear Heaven, how she longed 
for the clasp of his arm, of the touch of his hand, and now 
that it was offered to her she did not take it. 

Once, just before she died, to feel the clasp of his arm; 
once, just once, to stand with his hand holding hers; once, 
just once, to feel the beating of the heart that would never 
beat for her — to see the face bent over her that would never 
brighten for her. Six months ago she would have given her 
life for one such half-hour — now she was about to refuse it. 

Once, just once,^^ she pleaded to herself — for herself. 
Once, just once, to stand in the shelter of his embrace; he was 
her own husband, she need not fear. She had said often that 
she would give her life to see him and to hear him speak. 
How, should she fling from her this offered happiness. Ah, 
Heaven, no; it would be something to remember when she 
came to die. She looked at him, such tenderness, such noble 
love in her face, that it transfigured her. 

“Lord Dunhaven,^’ she said, “I have finished my think- 
ing.” 

“ And the result he asked. 

“ The result is, I accept your invitation, and shall be 
pleased to give you the next W£^tz.^^ 

He wondered why her voice was so musical, why the words 
seemed to die on the beautiful lips, but he never, even ever so 
faintly, dreamed of the truth. 

Then the “ Blue Danube floated through the room. 

“ If that were but my death-knell,"' thought the beautiful, 
unknown wife, “ and I might but die here." 

He held out his hand and she laid hers in it; the last time 
she had done so was when they stood before the altar, and he 
held the fatal wedding-ring. 

Then it seemed to her that they floated away to fairy-land— 
this could not be the dull, prosaic world wherein men grew 
sick and died: this was all beauty, fragrance andHove. 

To die now, with his arms clasped round her, and his eyes 
looking down at her — to say good-bye to all pain, sorrow, 
longing, hope and ceaseless wishing; to close her eyes while 
the sweet music floated round her, and the strong arms held 
her. She sighed and the fragrant breath touched his face. 

“You are tired," he said, gently. 

“Ho, I am not, indeed," she said. 

It was her one gleam of happiness, why shorten it? If she 
could but close her eyes and die. 

7 


194 


A THORK IK HER HEART. 


Some wild, sweet words came to her mind. What were 
they — where had she read them? 

“ If a dream, * 

Sweet dream be perfect — I shall die to-night — 

Stoop down and seem to kiss me ere I die.” 

Where had she read them? Why were they sounding 
through her brain now? 

“ Ah, if he would stoop down and seem to kiss me ere I die. 

No shame to her that her heart seemed to leave her and 
grow to him — that her face grew pale, that her sweet lips 
opened, yet no sound came from them. If he would 'Stoop 
down and kiss her that she might die with his lips oh hers. 

All at once, she was back to earth again; the music ceased, 
the clasp 'of his arm was gone. He stood there, looking at her 
with unwonted gentleness. 

You are tired, he said, “ let me get you an ice.’^ 

She smiled, as she contrasted his words with her mad ones, 
“ Stoop down, and seem to kiss me ere I die.^"’ 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

PLATOKIC LOVE. 

Lady Hilda owned to herself afterward that she had done 
an unfortunate thing in allowing herself that one dance with 
her husband. It had aroused all the passion and tenderness 
of her heart and love, it had aroused the jealousy that was 
never to sleep again, the passion that knew no rest. She 
found herself watching with a fire of anxiety for his coming, 
listening for his voice, counting the hours that must pass be- 
fore he came; then when he came, flying from him with shy 
eyes and a flushed face. * 

If the longing of her heart were gratified and she saw him, 
it was only to suffer torture tenfold greater, it was only to 
witness his love and devotion to the duchess, only to suffer a 
thousandfold at seeing the love given to another that should 
be hers. ^ She thought of him all night, she dreamed of liim 
all day — in the morning her pillow was wet with tears, at night 
her heart ached until the pain of it was greater than she could 
bear. 

There, were times when she felt that she must go, that his 
presence had in it more of torture than of delight, but she 
was powerless to move, as is a fly caught in a spider’s web— 
she could not tear herself away from him, she could not leave 


A THORK IN HER HEART. 


195 


him; she must be on the spot, she must watch the dream that 
was likely to be a tragedy. 

She had even a higher duty than that, she must watch over 
them both — over the young duchess, who was but an innocent 
child, over her husband, who, without knowing it, had learned 
to love. She 'could not leave them, her place was there in 
the danger vvith them, to watch and to pray, to speak words of 
wise warning when the time came, to give help when it would 
be needed — she must not, like a coward, turn and fly. 

The time came when she saw a chance of speaking, though 
afterward it seemed to her that she did more harm than good 
by it. One morning the duchess came to her and said she was 
going out. 

‘‘Let us spend the morning together, Mamie, she said. 
“ Lord Dunhaven is sure to call and he will amuse us.^' 

Lady Hilda brought her lace work and sat down near the 
d uchess. Her grace made a pretty pretense at work by hold- 
ing some dainty white point lace over her fingers, but it was 
seldom that she did even one stitch. 

“ It seems to me,^^ said Lady Hilda, “ that Lord Dunhaven 
amuses us every day. " 

The sweet child-like face was raised to hers in a rapture of 
delight — simple, innocent delight. 

“ Yes, is it not kind of him? He is so much sought after, 
he is so popular, yet he gives so much time to us. 

“ It pleases him,^^ said Lady Hilda; “ it is a case in which 
we will suppose charity and pleasure go together."’^ 

“ Yes, he likes it well enough,^ ^ said the duchess, naively. 

“ What do you imagine makes the peculiar bond of sympa- 
thy between you?’’ asked Lady Hilda, after a short pause — 
“ between you and Lord Dunhaven, I mean?” 

The duchess looked grave. 

“ I think,” she said, “ it is because we are sorry for each 
other. ” 

“ Why are you sorry for him?” was the next question. 

“ I think it such a sad life; if he loved this mysterious wife 
of his, he must feel the separation, he must be lonely, solitary, 
desolate; if he did not love her, it is even worse, for according 
to his theory, love comes to every one once in life. What will 
he do if it comes to him?” 

“ That is a serious question,” said Lady Hilda. “ And 
now tell me why he is sorry for you?” 

This time the sweet face flushed hotly, and then grew sad. 

“ Because he fancies that I am not quite happy. I did not 


196 


A THOKISr IK HER HEART. 


think of it much at first, but there is a great difference, be- 
tween my age and the duke^s/^ 

“ The poison begins to work/^ said Lady Hilda to herself, 
and she looked with pitying eyes on the young face which for 
the first time was dull. 

‘‘ The duke is very kind,’^ she replied. “ He worships you, 
he loads you with benefits and favors. If you had a younger 
husband, he might neglect you.*^ 

‘‘ Yes, I know all that,^^ she answered hurriedly. I am 
not breathing one word against the duke; indeed, if he were 
my father, I should love him most dearly; but then you see, 
Mamie, he is old enough to be my grandfather, lie is not a 
companion for me. It seems to me at times that I want a 
companion of my own age, some one who could laugh, dance, 
sing and talk with me. 

“ One can not have everything in this world,^' said Lady 
Hilda. 

‘‘ Ho, and I try to be content; but you ask me the question 
why Lord Dunhaven seems soi:ry for me, and I say ‘ I think he 
sees that a husband as old as my grandfather can no,t be a very 
suitable companion for me. ^ 

The duchess sighed and leaned her head back on her chair. 
Lady Hilda^s heart smote her as she saw for the first time 
the weary lines on the fair young face. Then it seemed to 
her that the time had come when she might with safety speak. 
She left her chair and knelt by the side of the young girl; she 
wound her tender arms round her, and drew the golden head 
to her breast. 

“ Duchess,-’^ she said, “ may I speak to you as though you 
were my own sister. 

“ Yes, you can always say just what you will to me,” she 
answered. 

“ Then, my dearest, I should like, for his sake and for 
yours, to whisper just one word of caution — only one. You 
will not be angry?” 

“ Ho, I should never be angry with you, Mamie,^^ said the 
duchess, but she did not raise her face, flushed with laughter 
or mirth, as she would have done at any other time. 

Lady Hilda held her tightly clasped to her breast, as she 
continued : 

“ You pity Lord Dunhaven and he pities you. Do you know 
what pity is akin to?” 

Love,” was the brief reply. 

“Yes, love; and as you say yourself, nothing would be so 
sad for him as to learn to love now, when love can only torture 


197 


A THORU- m HER HEART. 

him, and for you no pain would be so keen, no torture so great 
as to learn to love. 

Then the duchess raised her fair head. 

“ There is no question of love/^ she said. “ TVe have never 
mentioned such a word. 

“ I believe you have never spoken it. I only warn you. Pity 
easily changes into love; you are so young and so innocent; 
love comes in such beautiful guise, your heart is gone before 
even you know that it is in danger, and you know there can 
be no love for you and for him. Remember, I- am not saying 
that there is fear of such a thing. I only caution you as I 
would a sister of my own.^^ 

“ I will take the caution in Just the same spirit as you have 
offered it,^^ said the duchess. 

Then Lord Dunhaven was summoned. 

Lady Hilda saw that there was a certain gravity on the fair 
young face. Lord Dunhaven seemed to notice it; more than 
once he bent over the young girl and asked if she were quite 
well. 

“ Yes, I am quite well,^^ she answered. ‘‘ Why do you ask 
me?"^ 

Because,^^ he said, ‘‘ the sparkle has gone out of your 
face,- and I like to see it.^^ 

“ l am growing old and serious,^' said the duchess, with a 
charming toss of her golden head. 

“ I hope I shall grow old with you,^^ he answered. 

It so happened that Lady Hilda had to leave them alone. 
The duke had asked her to go to the library and read the 
leading articles in the Times to him; he was growing 
weary of trying to read himself. She had cheerfully con- 
sented, but now, when she had to leave them, the duty seemed 
hard. 

On one pretext or another, the duke kept her there until 
it was time for luncheon. She was hastening to her room, 
when the duchess met her. Hot the ^ame duchess she had 
left — not a young girl with a sad face and weary lines on her 
white brow, this was a girl with a radiant face and bright, 
love-lit eyes. 

“ Mamie, I want you,^^ she cried. “ I have been looking 
everywhere for you. I have something to tell you. Come 
into the picture gallery with me.^^ 

Lady Hilda never forgot her as she saw her then. They 
went into the picture gallery together — the duchess in her 
pretty morning-dress of white and blue, the golden, cluster- 


198 


A THOEK m HER HEART, 


ing, tangled hair like an aureole round her head. She placed 
Lady Hilda in an easy-chair and knelt at her feet. 

“ You were so kind to me, Mamie,^^ she said; “ and now 
I want to tell you it is all right — I understand, and he un- 
derstands."’^ 

Lady Hilda drew hack in sudden wonder. 

“ My dear,^"’ she cried, you have not surely told him what 
1 said?” 

Ho, not exactly — not all. But he- saw that I was distressed 
. and anxious; he made me tell him, but I did not mention 
your name at all. I spoke as though the doubts came from 
myself; and I am so glad, so happy that I did so speak. He 
has shown me how I can love liim, and how he can love me 
without the least particle of harm. He does love me, she 
continued, “ and he told me he had never loved a woman in 
this world before. But our love is not lovers’ love, Mamie — 
not that at all. ” 

“ I am glad of it,” was the dry comment. “ What kind 
of love is it, duchess?’* 

“ Platonic love,” she answered quickly. “ Lord D unhaven 
4ias explained the different kinds of love to me; there is lov- 
ers’ love — that, of course, we have nothing to do with; there is 
the love of friends; there is a love like that between brother 
and sister; then there is platonic love — and that is ours.” 

It was hardly possible, despite her pain, to help smiling. 

“ Will you explain to me what platonic love is?” she asked. 
“ I have not had so much experience as my Lord Dun- 
haven. To me it seems there is but one kind of love between 
men and women. ” 

‘‘ Platonic love is very beautiful, because it is all spiritual,” 
said the duchess. “ We are to be fast friends; we are to study 
each other’s tastes, likes, dislikes; we are to share our in- 
terests, our joys, our sorrows; we are to spend as much time 
as we can together; to write when we are parted; to be true, 
fast friends until death, to let nothing interrupt our friend- 
ship, and never to lose it until death. 

“ So that is platonic love,” said Lady Hilda. “ In what 
does it differ from the love of lover or husband?” 

“ There is a world of difference that I can not explain,” 
said the duchess; “ but oh, Mamie, how pleased I am that I 
can love him without any harm.” 

As she looked at her bright face. Lady Hilda could only 
pray Heaven to help her, for she stood more in need of it 
than ever. And for many long weeks she suffered deadly pain 


A THORK m HER HEART. 19^ 

while the platonic love was in full force, and the duchess 
quite happy in it. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

‘‘did you love your wife?^^ 

The spring and summer months had well-nigh passed. 
There had never been known a season so brilliant or so pro- 
longed. Certainly the Duchess of Nairn had been its most 
brilliant ornament, and the world had been equally delighted 
with her friend. Miss Dunn. They were always invited to- 
gether; and as a rule, Lady Hilda was considered the more 
beautiful woman of the two. 8he had innumerable admirers. 
The duchess’ enjoyed the number of her friend^’s conquests. 
She had more offers of marriage than falls to the lot of many 
beauties, and the wonder of the world was she refused them. 
Her marvelous grace and beauty made her a queen; many a 
wealthy peer would have ‘given his right hand to have made 
her mistress of his home; but she had no thought, no word, 
no look, save for her unknown husband. 

“ I shall have to call you Marble Heart,^^ said the duchess 
to her. “ How is it, that out of all yoi^r lovers you can not 
find one to love?^^ 

“ Every heart knoweth its own bitterness, and its own 
story,^^ replied Lady Hilda. “ Perhaps I have no heart, or 
perhaps I gave it long ago. 

“ I do not believe either of those theories, the duchess 
would answer. ‘ ‘ Ah, we shall see you owning to love and a 
lover some time, Mamie. 

Lord Dunhaven had more than once expressed his wonder 
that Miss Dunn rem'ained unwon. He had grown to admire 
her very much: her beautiful, noble face; her queenly bear- 
ing; her sweet and gentle wisdom; her noble thoughts and 
ideas; her wonderful powers of conversation; her gifts of mind 
and intellect won his profound admiration. More than once, 
when listening to her, he said to himself: 

“ Ah, if my wife had been like her, how different my life 
might have been. ” 

He had grown even to love her, but it was the love of a 
kindly elder brother. He knew in his own mind she was far- 
superior to the beautiful young duchess; that the one was a 
playful, loving child, the other a grand, high-souled woman. 
They had hacU many long conversations together. Once or 
twice he had called when the duchess was out; then Lady 


200 


A THORK IN' HER HEART. 


Hilda entertained him, and the hours had flown like minutes, 
so deeply were they engrossed. 

She talked her best to him — she was so eager over him, to 
keep him straight, to keep him from temptation, to help him 
.to be all that was good and noble. He loved the duchess best; 
indeed, she was the first woman he had ever loved; but in 
some vague way he felt more trust in Lady Hilda than in any 
one else. He admired her ideas, he respected her opinions 
and advice; she awoke all that was most noble in him to life. 
“ I am quite sure of one thing, he said to her once, “ and 
that is when I have spent one hour in talking to you I am a 
different man. You give me newer and grander ideas of 
life.^^ 

She treasured those words in her heart; they might serve her 
in her hour of need. Another time he said to her: 

“ I wonder if in the wide world there is another woman like 
you. A man would be pleased and happy who had such for 
a sister. I wish you were my sister. 

“ How is my time,’^' she thoughf, “ for a word of warning 
to him. 

‘‘ The love of brother and sister is very.beautiful',^’ she said; 
“but I have what you will think, perhaps, very peculiar 
views. I am frightened at the word love, there is so much 
mischief done under its name.^^ 

“ There is, indeed,^^ he said, thoughtfully. 

“You may think I am prudish in my ideas, she said; 

but they seem to me right, and one is that there is but one 
kind of love between men and women. It is a fatal mistake, 
I think, to imagine that there can be brotherly, or sisterly, or 
platonic love. I believe that it all goes the same way in the 
end, no matter by what name it is called. 

She watched him keenly as she spoke, to see if he under- 
stood, but his face gave no sign. 

“ Love is such a dangerous plaything,^^ she continued; “ it 
comes so gradually and so slowly that one never dreams of 
danger; no one ever knows that it is true until it works deadly 
evil. You, who know how I love the Duchess Lurline, can 
imagine how terrible a thing it would be for one like her — to 
play with love."’"’ 

“ It was a cruel thing, he cried, “ to marry her to that old 
man.^' 

“ Yes; but being done, of what use to complain? He loves 
her, and she escapes many ills.'’^ 

“ He is quite old enough to be her grandfather,^'’ he contin- 
ued. 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


301 


“ Is it wise to say so — to say anything which will make her 
discontented with her fate? Would it not be truer wisdom, 
truer kindness, to her, truer affection, to seek to make her con- 
tent with her lot? Would you show a bunch of ripe grapes to 
a thirsty child, if at the same time you could not give it one? 
Any one who talked to Duchess Lurhne about love, who tried 
to teach her its sorrows and its joys, would be, in my opinion, 
her greatest enemy. 

His face clouded as the words fell on his ear. Perhaps he 
knew there was a hidden warning in them. Then his eyes 
brightened, and he looked lip at her with a smile. 

“ You might have sat at the feet of the goddess Minerva 
herself/^ he cried. “ Ah, Miss Dunn! I do not like to disa- 
gree with you; I do not like to argue, but I venture to hope 
you are mistaken, that there can be a noble love between man 
and woman, a love that will not degenerate into passion. Now 
let us take the duchess.. Duly Heaven knows with what rev- 
erence I speak her nam^ Take her and myself — why should I 
not love her as though had been my sister?^ ^ 

“ Simply because she is not your sist^,^*’ said Lady Hilda. 

“ No, unfortunately. But why should that prevent me from 
giving her a brother’s love, from surrounding her with kindly 
offices, from sharing her joys and sorrows? Why can I not 
do this? Canyon see any harm in it?”' 

None, if you can keep your heart in your own hands, and 
see that she has never one beat too much.” 

“ I can' do that,” he cried, conscious of his own strength. 
“ I have not spent such a happy life. Miss Dunn, that I 
should refuse this light and warmth which it seems to me 
Heaven has sent; and it makes her very happy, too. ” 

She looked up at him. 

Do you think of the future,” she said, “ of what your 
love may grow to? Do you think it will always remain calm 
and gentle as it is now? Is it to be stationary?” 

' “ AVhy should it not be?” he asked. 

She looked at him, her face flushing, her eyes growing 
bright. 

‘‘I can not argue; you ought to' know best,” she said. 
“•The only love I ever knew grew every day — ” 

Then the entrance of the duchess stopped their conversation. 
From that time he seemed to trust her; he talked to her; he 
consulted her; she could not help noticing that when he 
wanted grave or serious conversation, or sensible advice, he 
came to her. They did not talk about love again. She saw 


202 


A THOEK Iiq’ HEK HEART. 


that her warning had produced some little effect, he was more 
guarded with the young duchess. 

‘‘ If the child’s heart be sleeping, let it sleep,” he said to 
himself, but there was in his mind a sure conv^iction that he 
had aroused it. . 

He had never intended even flirting with her; no man ever 
walked more blindly into the meshes of love. His life had not, 
as he said, been a very happy one; he had grieved deeply over 
his youug wife — the uncertainty of her fate, not knowing 
whether she were living or dead,. Jiving always in dread that 
some unpleasant thing or other migl^t be heard of her. 

Hone but himself knew how he repented of his part. He 
thought of her always as a simple, loving, tender-hearted girl, 
whom his cruel words and cold manner had driven to despera- 
tion. He would have given all he had for tidings of her; but 
none came tlirough all these weary years — none came. 

. “ She must be dead, mother, would say to Lady 
Harel; “ if she were living, we shouli^ I am quite sure, have 
heard of her. ” 

“ My dear Leonard^! she 'had the grace to die, b^ thankful 
for it. She is far more cruel to you than you have been to 
her, leaving you in this uncertainty. For my part, I shall not 
be sorry to hear that she is dead, and you are free.” 

Still time went on, and there came no news of her; then he 
met the lovely young duchess, and from that moment all 
things changed. He knew that he was not free to fall in love; 
he knew that she was married, and he had not the least inten- 
tion of falling in love; he never dreamed of it. Nor could he 
have told when he did so — whether it was the first moment he 
looked in her lovely face, or after he had known her for some 
time. 

He had smiled at Lady Hilda’s warning. It was not that 
kind of love he had for Lurline. It was the affection of the 
brother, he said to himself, and there was no fear, certainly 
not, no fear; and the grand old Bible words did not enter his 
mind: “ Let him that standeth take heed lest he fall.” 

Many times he longed to tell Miss Dqnn the strange story 
of his marriage; once or twice even he had begun it, but she 
always avoided the subject; once even he had thought her 
hard and cold over it. 

‘‘ Miss Dunn,” he said, ‘‘ I can not tell why it is; but my 
heart and soul seem to turn with ^uch confidence to you. 1 
should like to tell you the story of my marriage.” 

“ Of your marriage?” she said. “ Did you love your wife?” 

‘‘ Ho, I did not,” he answered. 


A THORN IN HER HEARTI 


203 


^ She turned coldly away. 

“ Then I would rather not hear it/^ she said. 

She was hard and cold; still he liked and respected her; 
every day that he saw her he liked her better and better. 

“ She is a glorious woman/^ he sjfid'to himself. 

And then the time came for them to go to Fernhurst. 

The lovely, laughing summer was just in its prime; and the 
duke, before they parted, made Lord Dunhaven promise that 
he would come after them as soon as he could. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

DANGEROUS FRIENDSHIP. 

Never had Fernhurst Castle looked more beautiful than 
this summer — of all sum^mrs it was the most beautiful. The 
flowers seemed loath tomi^, the birds never wearied of telling 
each other how grand it^as, the sun shone on the fair world 
as though it loved it, thW^rooks sung in the leafy woods, the 
broad, deep rivers laughed in the light. Fernhurst was a su- 
perb residence, one of the most^magniflcent in England — a 
great picturesque mass of buildings, with a grand frontage, a 
grand entrance, ' and an avenue of chestnuts that were consid- 
ered the flnest in England. It was one of the most superbly 
decorated and grandly furnished houses in the land. 

The gardens were a great feature — the large conservatories, 
the vineries, the glass houses, the ferneries; there was as much 
to admire outside the house as in. 

When they reached home, it was just the time of roses, and 
the roses were all in full bloom. The young duchess was de- 
lighted with her beautiful home; she nodded her pretty head 
at Lady Hilda. 

‘‘ That is a home worth marrying for, she said. 

But the next moment her beautiful face had clouded over, 
and she looked thoughtful. They spent whole days in looking 
round the magnificent mansion, with its superb grounds; and 
then the duchess, with a sigh of content, declared that she 
should be quite happy to live there until the London season 
began again. 

The duke had not been sparing in his invitations — -a large 
party was expected. The duchess said with a well pleased 
smile, they should not be alone for one day. 

The first installment of visitors was the Earl of Dunhaven; 
Lady Stans, a beautiful young widow; Captain Vernon, the 


204 


i THORN IN HER HEART. 


heir-presumptive to an earldom; Lord and Lady Alcaster—a 
well selected party, with every element of enjoyment. 

Lady Hilda looked forward most anxiously to her husband 
coming, not that she had the least thought of breaking her 
resolution and making herself known to him, but because her 
whole heart and soul craved for the happiness of being near 
him, her whole soul longed for his presence, her life seemed no 
life away from him. She only asked the happiness of being 
near him. She counted the days until he came. 

“ And yet,^^ she said to herself, “ how foolish I am. It will 
only be the old torture again. He likes me; he likes to talk 
to me; he will be kind, gentle, and attentive to me; but his 
looks, his tender words, his love will be all for Lurline — not 
for me. 

Not for her! That passionate cry, that passionate lamenta- 
tion rose from her lips by night and by day; ,not for her, the 
love she courted; not for her, the love she would have given 
her life for. ^ 

He came. Lady Hilda never forgot the day; the letter an- 
nouncing his arrival “was opened ak^he breakfast-table. The 
duchess read it to her husband; he seemed pleased,'and leaned 
back in his chair with a smile. 

“ liOrd Dunhaven is a great friend of mine,^-’ he said; “ I 
like him very much ; he is a man in whom 1 place implicit 
trust. I am glad he is coming. 

Through all that day Lady Hilda saw how restless the duch- 
ess was, how she wandered from room to room, unable to do 
anything — restless, with a light in her eyes Lady Hilda was 
pained to see. He was to arrive in the evening, and Lady 
Hilda smiled, with tears in her eyes, when she saw how beauti- 
fully the young mistress of Fernhurst had dressed herself. Her 
favorite costume of white silk, with bunches of green grass, 
diamonds forming the dew-drops; rare green grass wreathed 
the golden hair, so skillfully intermingled with diamonds, it 
was like grass wet with dew. She looked at Lady Hilda with 
a shy smile. 

“ He is coming to-night,’^ she said, and his wife said to her- 
self sadly, there was but one ‘‘ he in- the world for both of 
them. 

He came before sunset; the duchess went down to receive 
him, went with such a dainty bloom on her fair young face, 
with such proud happiness in her sweet eyes, that no man 
could have looked on her without admiration — while his- wife, 
whose heart was* thirsting for one look or one word from him, 
remained in her room, and had no pretext for going near him. 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


205 


From the window of her room she saw him some time after- 
ward with the duchess in the grounds; they went into the gar- 
dens and. disappeared among the roses. She flung herself on 
the ground in a passion of tears. 

‘‘ How mad I was to wish for his coming/^ she cried; ‘‘ he 
does not even remember me; he thinks only of Lurline; he 
cares only for her, and I could give my life for him. 

She had misjudged him; he had asked for her, and the 
duchess had said that she was well, and they would meet at 
dinner. Lady Hilda too had taken unusual pains with her 
dress; it was recherche and elegant — cream-colored silk with 
dashes of crimson, and a pomegranate blossom in her hair; she 
looked every inch a queen. ^ 

Yet he must have been -blind not to have seen all that was 
in her face when she greeted him — the passion of love and 
tenderness, the intensity of happiness, the smiling of pain. He 
was blind to it all; he only thought she was very beautiful and 
dressed with great elegairce. 

He held her hand in his own for one minute. ^ 

“You do not know. Miss Dunn,^^ he said, “how I have 
been looking forward to this great pleasure of meeting you 
again. It is like coming home to come here. 

He wondered a little that she was so silent; but when the 
duchess began to talk to him, he forgqt everything else in the 
world. 

It seemed so strange. In London he had taken lunch or 
dinner with them^ — he had spent the quiet afternoons with 
them; but here they we-re under the same roof, and he had not 
to leave them; Lady Hilda thought of the few days he had 
spent at Hurst Sea, of the two days at Lady DareFs before her 
wedding — how little he had said to her, and not once did she 
remember that he had looked at her. 

Perhaps, biit for that most cruel will, he might have grown 
to like her — it was just possible; and she wondered if in an- 
other world her father knew the sorrow he had occasioned her 
in this. 

So the time of the roses came and went. Lady Hilda asked 
herself at times if there had ever been a fate so strange as 
hers— to love her husband, with the most tender love, yet to be 
dead in life to him — to love him with all her heart, yet to live 
in his presence and see that he loved another — to love him, yet 
to know that he would never love her? There could never be 
fate so hard or so cruel as that. 

Ten days passed like short, bright dreams. They all met 
at breakfast; then the duke went out in a closed carriage, not 


m 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


asking his wife to go with him now. She rode/ dro\e, or 
walked with the others, but it always happened that her com- 
panion was Lord I) unhaven. He said she did not ride well, 
and he must give her some lessons; so that three or four 
mornings each week they would start off to gallop through the 
green lanes round Eernhurst. 

They were fatally sweet, those hours spent in the summer 
sunshine — fatally sweet. They were both so sure of them- 
selves, so sure of their good intentions, so safe in the pretty 
picture of brotherly love, that they did not take even common 
precautions; never did two people glide more calmly, more in- 
nocently down the liill that leads to ruin, than they. 

“ It is so nice to have a big elder brother,^ ^ said the duch- 
ess, looking up with a winning smile into the earFs face — so 
nice. I should never like to be without you again. 

I do not think you will ever be without me,^^ he said. “ I 
do not see why we should not give each other all the happiness 
we can.-’^ 

They were both so happy, so bright, so evidently pleased 
with each other ^s society, that it seemed by general consent 
that they were left much together. When they drove out it 
was Lord Bunhaven who drove the duchesses, ponies; if they 
rode, he was her cavalier; if they walked he was by her side; 
if they spent any time in-doors, he never left her. No one 
ever made any remarks about it; it seemed by general consent, 
that together they must be. So far, all was good- and right; 
neither had the least thought of going wrong; they would have 
shrunk with horror from such a notion. 

“ I can not remember a summer like this,^^ said the duch- 
ess one morning. She was with Lord Bunhaven and Lady 
Hilda; they were walking through the rose-gardens, for it was 
her grace^s whim that morning to gather flowers; She looked 
at the earl as she spoke. “ The sun has been brighter and the 
roses sweeter this year than ever. 

He bent his head over her. 

‘‘ It is not that,^^ he said. This summer seemed more 
beautiful to you, because I am with you, and I love you. Love 
is the great beautifierof everything./^ 

Lady Hilda heard the words; they pierced her heart. She 
made way that they should pass her. She said to herself bit- 
terly that it was the old story. For them the sunlight and the 
roses; for her always and ever, a thorn in her heart. Even 
though she lingered behind them, she could not help hearing 
his words. / 


A THORK m HER HEART. 


207 

‘‘ I have always thought/^ he said, “ that the presence of 
the one we love makes our heaven on earth/ ^ 

“ How many heavens have you found below asked the 
duchess. 

“ This is my first/^ he answered; “ and I am quite sure it 
will be my last. ” 

Again his beautiful, unhappy wife, hearing the words, felt 
how cruel was her fate, that this love so true, so devoted, 
pure, generous, and noble, had not been given to her. 

■ How many more such summers shall we see?^^ asked the 
duchess, and there was something of sadness in the laughing 
voice. 

“ How many?^^ he repeated. ‘‘ Who shall say? If we 
live for fifty summers, then we shall have fifty more. One 
thing is quite certain that so long as I live and you live. 
Duchess Lurline, our summers will be spent together. 

“ And that will make their beauty,^’ she said. 

Yes, that will make their beauty,’^ replied Lord Dun- 
haven. 

And the wife to whom he had never said one loving word 
turned away, because she could bear to hear no more. 


CHAPTER XLVH. 

“ YOU MIGHT HAVE LOVED HER.^^ 

A LOVELY morning in July. The whole party at Fernhurst 
sat at breakfast. The long French windows were open; the 
air that came in was like the breath of the fiowers; the sun- 
light lay over the land, the sky was blue, and the birds sung. 

The morning of itself was enough to make any one light of 
heart. The duchess looked fresh and fair as a rosebud steeped 
in dew. Lady Hilda had all the beauty of the summer morn- 
ing on her face; some little change in the arrangements had 
given her a seat next the earl. 

The duke did not often appear at the breakfast table at 
Fernhurst, the effort of rising in time was too great for him. 
Of late he had not been so well— he seemed to grow tired very 
easily, he could not sleep, he did not care to join often the 
bright circle of guests. 

He was not ill, he would not for one moment hear of send- 
ing for advice or anything of the kind. He was well, but tired, 
was the answer he gave to all inquiries — no one felt anxious 
over him. 


208 


A THOEN IK HEK HEAKT. 


The duchess would insist on talking to him, but his reply 
was always the same to her. 

“ Go and amuse your guests, Lurline; I am tired and 
would rather rest. 

He was growing old, he would say at times, with a pathetic 
smile — old and tired. On this morning he had kept his room, 
and did not come to breakfast. The letters were brought in 
and put on the table. The duchess laughed at the number as 
she distributed them. 

‘‘ Lord Dunhaven,^' she said, “ here is some news that will 
interest you.^'’ 

‘‘ Then it must be good news,’^ he replied. 

“It is good. This letter is from LMy Darel. She is on 
her way to Oheston Park, and proposes to stay with us for a 
few days. I shall be much pleased and so will the duke. The 
seventeenth — why, the letter has been delayed on the road; she 
will be here this ev^ening."'^ 

“ I shafll be quite pleased to see my mother,^-’ said the earl. 
“ I have been so much abroad that of late years we seem 
hardly to have met. It will be a great pleasure to us to be to- 
gether."’^ He turned suddenly to Lady Hilda. 

“Miss Dunn,^^ he asked, “did you meet my mother in 
London? Why, pardon me! how ill you look. What is the 
matter? Do you feel ill?’^ 

“ My head aches, she said, slowly; then, with an effort to 
gather her wandering thoughts, she said; “ I did not meet 
Lady Darel in London. 

“ I thought perhaps you might; she was there for some part 
of the season. You met her, duchess, I think? 

“ Yes, I saw Lady Darel often; we were excellent friends. 
I shall be quite pleased to see her again. ” 

Then the conversation became more general. Lady Hilda 
had time to reflect. What could she do? She must not be recog- 
nized — anything would be preferable to that. She had said to 
herself that she was dead in life, and she would keep her word; 
anything rather than that. If no other alternative came, she 
would leave Fernhurst at once. He would have no kindly 
thought for her if she were recognized — he, whose love was 
given to Duchess Lurline. 

Would Lady Darel recognize -her? Her husband had not 
done so, though it was true he had rarely looked into her face. 
She had lived with Lady Darel a whole year; there could be 
no doubt that she would recognize her. “ The eyes of hate 
are quicker than the eyes of love,"" not that Lady Darel hated 


A THOEK m HER HEART. 209 

her, but she was so keen, so shrewd. Lady Hilda felt that it 
would be impossible to deceive her. 

What should she do? The duchess, quite innocently, solved 
the difficulty for her. The guests had gone each their road, 
and Lady Hilda still sat in the breakfast-room, quite bewil- 
dered and at a loss. The duchess went up to her. 

“ Sitting alone, Mamie?^^ she said; “ why, what is wrong? 
You are very pale and your eyes so heavy — what ails you?^^ 

‘‘ I do not feel well,” answered Lady Hilda. 

The duchess clasped her hand in her own. 

‘‘ Your face is white, you shiver as though with cold, yet 
your hands burn like fire — what is the matter? I hope you 
have not taken a violent cold, or that you are not going to 
have a fever, Mamie ?^^ 

Then Lady Hilda saw her opportunity. 

I think, she said, “ with your permission, duchess, I 
will keep my room for a few days; I am not well enough to 
be of any use. ” 

The duchess readily assented, and Lady Hilda gladly went 
to her room. It was under no false pretenses, for agitation 
had made her really ill. It was some comfort to lock the door, 
to lay her head on the pillow and rest; the quiet and silence 
were both so novel to her. Now, for the first time, it seemed 
to her she had time to think, to realize 'her situation. As a 
rule, the days glided by in one dazed dream; she was always 
with the duchess until the last moment. Now she was alone, 
and the great waves of thought, so long beaten back, surged 
over her and overwhelmed her. 

Was there ever so strange a fate? That she should have 
been married for her money; that she should have given away 
the money and have made herself dead for all time; that so 
strong and passionate a love should have grown up in her heart 
for her husband; that she should be living here under the same 
roof with him, quite unknown to him, and see him give the 
whole love of his heart to another who could never take it. 
She thought over all she had ever read in history, poetry, and 
romance, but no fate struck her as being so sad as her own. 
It seemed to her the most strange coincidence that Lady Darel 
should come while she was there. She understood that lady’s 
determination of character. If the duchess should happen to 
mention that she was ill, the chances were she would insist 
upon seeing her for the sake of giving advice. Lady Hilda 
could picture the scene she felt that she must warn the duch- 
ess against it. The next day the mistress of Fernhurst came 
to her room to see her; she began to speak of Lady Lareh 


210 


A THORK IN' HER HEART. 


“ Duchess/^ she said, “ is Lady Darel what people call a 
strong-minded woman?’"’ 

“ Just a little, I found,” answered Duchess Lurline. 

‘‘ Ah, then, please, pray do not let her come to see me. If 
she does so, she will frighten me into a nervous fever. ” 

The duchess laughed. 

Do you not really wish to see her?” she said. 

‘‘ No, I do not, indeed. I dread all ladies who are fond of 
giving advice. ” 

‘‘ Do not be afraid; she shall not come, I promise you. If 
she says one word of any such intention to me, I will frighten 
her with all kinds of contagion. Best in peace, Mamie, she 
shall not come near you. ” 

So Lady Hilda tried to do as she was bid, and rest in peace; 
but she could not help trembling at every sound; quick foot- 
steps along the corridor made her shudder, and once she 
heard Lady Darel’s voice. She was walking with the duchess 
through the corridor, and Lady Hilda’s heart beat fast as she 
heard the tones of thakvoice which had uttered so many sharp 
words to her. 

‘‘ You have some lady living with you as companion, have 
you not?” Lady Darel asked, as they slowly walked down the 
long corridor. “ I think it is very sensible. Is she old or 
young?” 

‘^Ifl say she is young, ” thought the duchess, ‘^I shall 
have a lecture on the proprieties.” 

“ She is— no particular age,” was the brief answer, and 
Lady Darel had no idea what she meant.. 

“ Is she single or a widow?” was the next question. 

“ She is single, very single, indeed,” laughed the duchess,* 
“ for she will not even have a lover?” 

‘‘ Is she ill, do I understand?” said Lady Darel. 

‘‘ Yes, we are rather anxious over her; she has not been 
well for some days.” 

‘‘ I will go and see her, if you like,” said Lady Darel. “ I 
understand something of medicine. ” 

Do you? I hardly think I should risk it. If it should 
turn out to be fever, it would be so very unpleasant. ” 

Lady Darel grew pale at the thought. 

‘‘ Infection,” she repeated; ‘‘ of course, I did not think of 
anything of that kind; it will be safer, perhaps, to keep away, ’k 

And so the danger was averted; but Lady Hilda was kept 
in her room for a longer time than she thought; the earl’s 
mother found herself so comfortable that at the end of the 


A THORK m HER HEART. 211 

week, ske said how pleased she would be to remain another 
day or two. 

The duchess was only too delighted, and mother and son 
had time for some long discussions. He had met her with 
some little expectation in his face. The thought had flashed 
across him, that coming down there, she might have something 
to tell him of his lost wife. 

‘‘ Mother,'’^ he said to her, the first minute they were 
alone, “ mother, have you any news of Hilda? 

‘‘ was the answer, “ nor do I expect ever to hear any 
more, Leonard. My opinion of the girl is that she was mad, 
and she has probably killed herself. " 

“My dear mother, said the earl, in dismay, “do not, 
please, say anything so terrible. 

“ Her father was half mad — he must have been to have lived 
in that miserly fashion at Hurst Sea — to have brought up his 
daughter in the fashion he did, to have made such a will. 
He must have been mad — no doubt, the girl takes after him. 

“You think that suflicient search has been made after 
her?’^ he said. 

“ I do, indeed. My dear Leonard, I have come to this con- 
clusion, that you may safely believe her dead and, if you will, 
marry again. If she were living, we should have heard of her 
in some fashion before this.^^ 

“ Do you really think so?^’ he asked. 

“I do indeed. I would take upon myself the entire re- 
sponsibility of saying that she is dead. I understand women 
better than you do, Leonard. J ust in the first smart of her 
anger she may have said to herself that she woul^ be dead to 
us for evermore; but no woman who knew she might have 
rank and wealth by claiming it, would leave it all alone. Rest 
assured, Leonard, she is dead. 

“ Poor Hilda,^^ he said thoughtfully. 

“ It is in a great measure her own fault,^^ said Lady Darel; 
“ she should have been more patient. You might have loved 
her by this time.'’^ 

“ Yes, I think I should have done so,^^ he said; then added 
to himself that all the love he had to give was given now. 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 

ALOHE. /' 

Lady Hilda was almost in despair when she heard that 
her husband ^s mother was prolonging her visit. In spite of 
the duchess'^s promise, there was no day on which she did not 


212 


A THORK IN HER HEART. 


fear a visit from her. It was an intensity of relief to her 
lying there to hear the roll of the carriage wheels that took 
my lady away. A great load was taken from her mind ; the 
fear of detection was gone, and it had weighed heavily on her. 
Now she was free to go down-stairs and do as she would. 

How heartily she was welcomed there — her beautiful, noble 
face had been sadly missed. Every one had a kind word 
and a kind smile for her; every one congratulated her, and 
was delighted to see her. Lord D unhaven went up to her 
and took her hand. 

“ I seemed to have lost my best friend and counselor, he 
said. “ I missed you more than any words can tellt*^^ 

He looked so kindly in her face, he held her hand so gently, 
his words were so kind, that as she raised her eyes to his face 
a great, passionate cry came from her heart; if he knew — if 
he only knew that it was his unloved, lost wife who stood there. 

“ You must not fall ill again,^^ said the earl. “ Do you 
know that I have always been struck by your want of care for 
yourself? You must amend that now. 

His kindness touched her greatly. He really liked and ad- 
mired her; her clear judgment, her sound sense, her great 
intelligence, her quick intellect, and graceful fancy made him. 
admire her. He had missed her, too. 

The duchess was a brilliant hostess, but it was Lady Hilda 
who led the conversation — Lady Hilda who had the gift of 
making others shine. She took her place among them, and 
they felt that the lovely young duchess herself would be less 
missed than her friend. Miss Dunn. 

In a few hours she was cognizant of all that was going on; 
but to her inexpressible dismay, she saw a great change in 
Lord Dunhaven and Duchess Lurline. It seemed to her that 
the platonic love had altogether come to grief. It was no 
calm, brotherly love that shone in his eye and on his face — it 
was passionate love. She had been away from them ten days, 
and the mischief done in ten days could never be undone. 
She had left them friends, she found them lovers, and both 
quite unconscious of it. 

The way in which he spoke was more than enough; the words 
came from his lips like the notes of a song. When they were 
alone he called her ‘‘ Lurline,^ ^ and she had told him she had 
never known any beauty in her name until he used it. 

Lady Hilda looked on in despair; it was all at an end now — 
any faint hope she might have cherished about winning her 
husband's heart; and she trembled at the danger that lay be- 


A THORK IK HER HEART. 


213 


fore them. How would it end — this passionate love of theirs 
— how could it end? 

It was a custom for the guests at Fernhurst to stroll out in 
the grounds after dinner. There were cards and billiards for 
the elders, but the young people preferred the moonlight and 
the flowers. The August moon was so bright, the flowers so 
sweet; and away in the home woods they could hear the night- 
ingale. It was better than artificial lights and cards. The 
moonlight fell on the white lilies, and silvered their leaves; it 
fell on the bowed head^ of the lovely red roses, whose every 
breath was a sigh of love; on the white jasmine stars; on the 
fair faces of the carnations; it fell on the fountains and the 
statues; on the broad terraces and the grounds — a sheet of sil- 
ver light, more beautiful than words could tell. It was the 
very hour and scene for romance, and the duke^s guests en- 
joyed it to their hearts^ content. 

On this, the first evening that Lady Hilda was among them 
again, the moon was full, bright, and clear; the western wind 
just stirred the great boughs and sent the almond-blossoms 
drifting to the lake. The drawing-room windows had been 
opened wide, and the moonlight fell on the waters of the rip- 
pling fountain — it was like a scene in a theater. The card- 
tables were set out; but one by one, the,guests went out on to 
the terrace, and through the rose gardens into the grounds. 

Lord Hunhaven was talking to Lady Hilda; he looked 
round for the duchess, but could not find her. Thinking she 
was out on the grounds, he asked Lady Hilda if she would like 
to go out among the flowers. 

“ To me,^^ he said, “ this is the most pleasant hour in the 
twenty-four — I have a passion for moonlight and sleeping 
flowers. 

As they passed out of the window he offered her his arm. She 
laid her white hand lightly on it — the last time she had done so 
was when they came down the aisle of the church in which they 
were married. She thought of it, and the memory of it made 
her silent when she would have spoken. 

They went through the rose garden, and the more he talked 
to her the more she liked him. If she had but understood 
him better — if she had but guessed how much real warmth 
and tenderness of heart existed under this indifferent exterior, 
she would never have left him. 

Then she began to perceive that, happy as he felt, there 
was something wanting for him. He grew silent after a time, 
and sighed deeply; the subject of his thoughts came upper- 
most. 


214 


A THORK m HER HEART. 


“ I wonder vdiere the duchess is/^ he said. “ Did you no- 
tice which way she went. Miss Dunn?^'’ 

“ No/^ she replied, “ I saw her with Captain Vernon. 

He muttered something not very complimentary to Captain 
Vernon between his teeth. 

“ I am quite sure,^^ he said eagerly, “ that she would not 
care about being with him. I should like to find her.^^ 

They came presently to a little group of people sitting where 
the beds of white lilies lay. Among them was the duchess 
and Captain Vernon. Lady Hilda could guess how much 
they loved each other when she saw their eyes meet. 

After a few minutes he bent his head and whispered to her. 

“ Miss Dunn,^’ he said, ‘‘ I pray forgive me, but I want to 
speak to the duchess, and it would look strange perhaps if I 
took her from Captain Vernon. Could you, under some pre- 
text, go to speak to her? Tell her this most sweet and fair 
moonlight makes me long for her. Ask her to come and talk 
to me. I will join you and we can walk on together. 

She heard the ring of passion in his voice, she saw the in- 
tense love that shone in his -eyes, and her heart rose in hot re- 
bellion against her fate. Why should she, on this lovely 
moonlight night, fetch some one else to talk to him?' Why 
could she not rouse love and poetry in him? Her beautiful 
face grew pale, her whole soul rebelled. 

Suddenly he looked at her. 

“ What a beautiful name Lurline is,^^ he said. In all the 
English language I know no other name so sweet. 

“ I do not think it is English,^ ^ she answered him. 

Just at that moment she felt angry and jealous enough to 
have taken the beauty even from her rival ^s name. 

It is English in her case,^^ he said. “ Lurline — in some 
vague way it seems to suit the moonlight and lilies, it is so 
sweet. Ah, Miss Dunn, be kind to me, send that good-look- 
ing captain after some of those young girls who admire him so 
that I may join the duchess. 

She longed with the whole force of her heart to say: 

“ No, 1 will not seek her; I am your wife, love me. 

She had to remind herself over and over again that she was 
dead in life, that she had sworn never to reveal her identity or 
her existence toliim. She had to recall all the burning mem- 
ory of her wrongs. Then she walked slowly away from him 
to the duchess, who stood talking to Captain Vernon with an 
expression of impatience on her lovely young face. 

Ah, Heaven, why was she so fair? and being so fair, why 
did he love her so? The lilies, so white in the moonlight. 


A THOKK IN HER HEART. 


215 


were not fairer; the red roses no sweeter; golden rings of hair 
lay on her white brow, her bright eyes were full of clear light, 
the sweet red lips were like a parted rose-bud. The moonlight 
fell like a white lace veil that shrouded the golden head, on 
the rich jewels and gleaming dress* Ah, Heaven, why was 
she so fair? Captain Vernon stood aside for a few minutes, 
and with all impatience the duchess clasped Lady Hilda 
hand. 

‘‘ Where is Lord Dunhaven?^^ she said. “ I have seen him 
with you. I want to talk to him in the moonlight, not with 
a stranger — where is he, Mamie. 

Hilda controlled the hot, jealous pain that pierced her heart 
like a two-edged sword — that blanched her face to the white- 
ness of the lily leaves. 

“ I have been with him,^"" she said, ‘‘ and he wants to join 
you."" 

Duchess Lurline turned with a most charming smile to 
Captain Vernon. 

I must not be selfish,"" she said; “ I must not detain you 
any longer. Some of those young ladies will owe me ill-will 
if I keep you here. "" . 

She did not give him time for any answer, but went away 
with Lady Hilda. They met the earl just outside the rose 
gardens. 

Ah, Heaven, for one such look from him as he gave Lurline 
now — for one such passionate clasp of the hand — for one such 
murmur of perfect content, she would have been willing to 
have given her life. 

“ The night seemed all dark without you,"" her husband 
said, as he drew the duchess"s arm in his own. Miss Dunn, 
you are a true friend, I was growing desperate."" 

Duchess Lurline looked up at him with loving eyes. 

“ We have grown so accustomed to spending this hour in the 
moonlight together,"" she said, ^‘that it seemed quite strange 
to be with any one else."" 

The three walked together until they came to the narrow 
path, bordered on each side by the white lilies, then Lady Hilda 
stopped as though to gather one, and they passed on without 
her. They both loved her, neither of them would have hurt 
her feelings for the whole world, but the glamour of love was 
on them, and they forgot her; they walked on, leaving her 
standing among the lilies, alone. 

It W'as not so much jealousy that pained her then as 
wounded love. Dear Heaven, how hard it seemed that he 


21G 


A THOKK IK HEE HEAET. 


should love this beautiful duchess, and that she, his wife, 
should be forgotten and left alone. 

The night wind grew chilly, the lilies shivered, and she 
went in-doors, the piercing of the thorn sharper than ever in 
her heart. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

“be WAEKED IK TIME.^^ 

Whek the night wind blew more chilly^ one by one the 
wanderers by moonlight returned to the brilliantly lighted 
drawing-room. 

Lady Hilda saw the earl, with his beautiful companion, en- 
ter. One look at the two faces was enough, it was no longer 
the dawn of love written there, it was the full light of the 
noonday. There was some music.. Lady Hilda knew not 
who sung or who played. She was aroused by her husband’s 
face bending over her as. he said good-night. 

“ I am your debtor. Miss Dunn,” he said. “ I owe you one 
of the happiest hours I ever spent in my, life. ” 

“ I would make all your hours happy if I could,” she said, 
but he for long afterward thought of her face as she said the 
words and wondered what brought the pain there. Her eyes 
seemed dim with it; what pain could she have to bear? 

“ I hope,” he said to himself, “ she has not fallen in love 
with that young Captain Vernon.” How little he knew, how 
little he guessed. 

Lady Hilda was very unhappy. She loved her husband, and 
could not endure the knowledge that he loved another. She 
could not bear the jealous pain that tore her heart with sharp- 
est wounds, and to this was added, for the first time, the pain 
of doubt. 

When she left him to whom all ties both human and divine 
had bound her, she had thought of nothing but sacrificing 
herself to him. He wanted her money, but he did not want 
her. She had given him her money, and had taken herself 
away; the right or wrong of it had 'not dawned across her 
mind. It did now for the first time. Could she so lightly 
throw aside her solemn vows, break the bonds that tied her, 
throw all duty and obligation to the wind? Had she done 
right in taking such a course? Might it not be possible that 
instead of standing before Heaven as a heroine who had sac- 
rificed wealth, title and all she valued, that in the sight of 
Heaven she was a criminal? ’ 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


217 


She could see some of the consequences of wuat she had 
done now. If she had remained with her husband, he might 
by this time have learned to love her — at least, he would have 
been kind to her, and the knowledge that she was with him 
would have kept him from falling in love with any one else. 

She would have been in some measure a safeguard and pro- 
tection to him had she remained with him. He would have 
made a political life for himself, he would have had interest in 
life; his time would not have been spent in visiting and trav- 
eling. 

“If it be my wrong doing, may Heaven forgive me,^^ she 
said; “ I did not intend it.^^ 

She saw what leaving him had done for her husband; how 
could she estimate the evil done to the young duchess? If 
Lurline had seen a wife by Lord Dunhaven’s side, a loving, 
true, devoted wife, she would have had no need to pity him, 
and the pity would never have grown into love. 

“ It is all my fault, she said. “ I have to answer for it to 
God and to man. No one can throw off all the obligations of 
life without suffering for it. 

Her heart was stirred with a sudden sense of contrition and 
sorrow. She must do her best to make up for it. She must 
try and find out what mischief was done, and remedy it, not 
by making herself known — that would never do now, it was 
too late — but by talking to the young girl whose truest friend 
she was supposed to be. 

“ I will go to her now,^^ she thought, “ and give her the 
most solemn warning that one woman can give another. 

She went to the duchesses room and found that most capri- 
cious and charming of ladies seated before her dressing-table, 
her golden hair lying in waves over her shoulders, while Phillis 
brushed it out. The maid was soon dismissed. The duchess 
went up to Lady Hilda and clasped her tender white arms 
round the stately figure. She laid her sweet face on the breast 
that was stirred with such deep sorrow for her. 

“ Mamie, she said, “what a lovely night we have had. 
I wish it were always moonlight with the lilies, in bloom. I 
wish all life could be like the last few hours. 

Then the elder girl raised the sweet face and kissed it. 

“ I want to talk to you/^ she said. “ Sit down here, and 
let me speak to you as though I were your elder sister. Prom- 
ise me that nothing I may say shall offend you." ^ 

“ It shall not, indeed, Mamie; I can never be offended with 
you."" 

“ I have debated long in my own mind whether I should 


218 


A THORK m HER HEART. 


Speak or not/^ said Lady Hilda. “ I have seen the evil grow, 
but I have been afraid to increase it even by one word. Lur- 
line, look in your own heart and tell me what fills it — who lives 
there — who rules it — whom does it follow — who makes its light, 
its warmth, its sun? Tell me, Lurline.^^ 

But the sweet face drooped, and was hidden again on her 
breast. 

“ Darling, I am your sister, speaking to you; I have suffered 
so much — I will tell you this now — I have suffered so much 
that my life is but life in death. Let my pain plead with you 
to listen to me.^^ 

‘‘ I am listening,’^ said the low voice; and the white arms 
tightened their clasp round that stately figure. 

“ Tell me, Lurline; you said your heart slept, your poet 
friend told you so — is it awake now?’^ 

“ Yes, it is awake, said the duchess, it is awake and will 
sleep no more until it sleeps in death. 

‘‘ Who woke it, Lurline?^ ^ 

But the golden head drooped still lower at the question, and 
no answer came. 

“ My darling, said Lady Hilda, ‘‘ I know all about it — 
there is no need for words. I will speak for you. YYu were 
but a child until you met Lord D unhaven — 

She felt the shiver that made the slender figure tremble. 
She went on: 


“ You met him, and you liked each other. As you told 
me yourself, sympathy drew you together; you were sorry for 
him because he had what was worse perhaps than no wife — 
he pitied you because being so young and gay of heart, you 
were married to a man who, good as he is, is old enough to be 
your grandfd.ther.''^ 

“ That is the simple truth, said the duchess. 

“ Then this great sweet pity grew into love, but grew so 
gently that you did not know when it ceased to pity and be- 
came love. 


You undQTstand it so well,^^ said the duchess. 

“I watched it,^^ said Lady Hilda gently, ‘‘I saw it aH. 
This love lasted some little time before either of you knew it 
was there; and when both came to know it, there was nothing 
in it to frighten you. I spoke to you about it then, and you 
told me it was but a brotherly love on his part, and sisterly 
love on yours. Was it not so?’"’ 

“ Yes,^^ said the duchess. 

“ Until then all was right, and there was no one to say 


A THORN HER HEART. 219 

even one word against it; all would have been well if it could 
have remained stationary. _ 

“ All is well/^ said the duchess, with a smile half tender, 
half proud. 

Lady Hilda looked down on her gravely. 

“ All is not well, my darling,^ ^ she said gently. “ Your love 
and his have changed — it is lover^s love now, not the love of a 
brother, sister or friend. It has gone beyond that.^-’ 

No answer came this time, and Lady Hilda went on; 

“ Now is the time when a true friend would warn you. 
You have passed out of the region of friendship into the 
region of danger. Love is very sweet; oh, so sweet that those 
who have it notjdie for its want; but that very sweetness hides 
the poison, just as the lovely leaves of the rose hide a thorn. 
Now is the time, Lurline, when you must stop, and take your 
love in your own hands — to destroy it. 

“ Why should I destroy it,^^ said the duchess, “ when it is 
my life itself 

“Has it gone so far as that?^^ said Lady Hilda. “Alas, 
my warning comes too late. You ask me why you must de- 
stroy it — because honor is dear to you. 

“ Our love harms no one; we do no wrong; we neglect no 
one because of it. How can it be wrong? 

“ The truth is so plain, so simple,'’^ said Lady Hilda. “ You 
are a married woman; your husband has the only claim on 
your love, and if you can not give it to him you should give 
it to no other. Then, Lord Hunhaven has a wife; and though 
he may not care for her, still he ought not to give ' the love to 
you’that should be hers. Ho you not understand? 

“ I think you are very hard,'’^ was the reply. 

“ Do you? I do not. Honor, duty, every law, human and 
divine, forbids such love. If you were free to marry each 
other, all would be well;. the love would be beautiful and 
poetic then; but you are not, and such love — I can use but 
one word for it — is sinful. ” 

The duchess raised her golden head proudly. 

“ You must not use such a word to me, Mamie. I do not 
like it. 

“ It is disagreeable, I own; plain speaking always is— but it 
is true. Only imagine if every lady unhappily married 
thought she had a right and license to love some one else, just 
because her own marriage was unhappy. Can you not see 
what a terrible thing it would be:^^ 

The young duchess rose with a sudden passionate cry: 


220 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


‘‘ Why should I be unhappy? Why should I give up the 
only pleasure in my life? Why should I do it?” 

‘‘ Ask that of Him who framed our laws,” said Lady Hilda 
gravely. ‘‘ Ah, Lurline, it hurts me to speak to you so, you 
have been so good to me; but I must. I must stand here and 
warn you in the name of God, who forbids all illicit and un- 
lawful love, that you are on the road to danger and ruin; that 
your husband^s honor is imperiled in you; that your fair name 
will soon be written in the dust. My dear, my dear, be 
warned in time. Send him away from you while you can.^^ 
“I see no reason,'’^ said the duchess, faintly. “ Our love 
comforts us and harms no one.’’^ 

“ You are blind and will not see,^^ cried Lady Hilda. 
‘‘ You admit yourself that your love is a thousand times stronger 
than it was. Now let me ask — what will become of you when 
it is stronger still? Where will it end? He told you this even- 
ing — I heard him — that he could not live without you; how 
is that to end? Oh, my dear, think — think, and pray.-^^ 


CHAPTER L. 

“the end of all sin is death. 

The duchess stood before her like some beautiful bird 
brought to bay. 

“ Why do you speak to me like this? Why do you say 
these cruel things to me, Mamie? I am not a sinner; you 
speak as though I were a lost one. Why should you do this?” 

“I want to save you,” said the' elder girl, with a rain of 
tears. “ I love you, Lurline, and I want to save you. I see 
further than you; I see to the end.” 

“ What is the end?” asked the duchess, touched and awed 
by her gravity. 

“ The end of all sin is death — that is the plain ugly truth. 
People may wrap it up in a silver veil, may clothe it in elegant 
words; it is all the same — the end of sin is death; and as all 
unlawful love is sin, its end must be death.” 

The sweet face of Duchess "Lurline flushed hotly. 

“ I deny that ours is what you are pleased to call an unlaw- 
ful love,” she said. 

“ My dearest Lurline, you may not like the word, but in- 
deed it is so. Your love should be your husband^s; when you 
give a lover’s love to any other man, it is wrong, sinful, un- 
lawful, and the end of it is death.” 

“ I can not see it. Why should we not be happy with each 


A THORK IK HER HEART. 


221 


otner without sin? He comes to see us by my husband’s ex- 
press invitation. It is my husband who asks him to go out 
with me, who puts me under his charge.” 

‘‘Your husband is an honorable gentleman, who would 
never suspect evil. But tell me frankly, Lurline, if the duke 
had seen what I saw among the lilies this evening, what would 
he have thought? I saw Lord Dunhaven’s manner to you, 
and it was that of a lover. What would the duke say to that? 
Would he approve of these long walks, long conversations, of 
those tender looks and* tender words? Would he like all that?” 

“ We have thought no harm,” said the duchess. 

“No; but after my warning, you can never say that again 
— never. You know now that you are on a dangerous path, 
and that another step forward may ruin you. Think of it for 
one moment — ^you would not like disgrace, dishonor, the loss 
of your fair name and station. Love is a fever. When the 
fever has passed by, you would be ready to kill yourself with 
shame. ” 

“ You must not use that word to me,” said the Duchess 
Lurline, proudly. 

“ Nor must you deserve it, darling. See, stand before this 
glass for one minute; look at the sweet face there. Only a 
few weeks ago that was a child’s face, laughing, light, cloud- 
less — the very sunshine of Heaven in it. What is there now? 
A woman’s soul all awakened, a woman’s heart at war — pas- 
sion and love. Dear Heaven, what wdll bring you back the 
child’s face, again?” 

“ Nothing,” said the duchess. “ But I would rather be a 
woman than a child. I know now what love is, and I would 
not be without the knowledge. ” 

Lady Hilda looked at her in deepest pity. How little she 
knew of realities, this fair dreaming child, with her face of 
poetry and her eyes of light. 

“ You must listen to reason, my darling,” she said. “ You 
must, indeed. You must take my warning to heart.” 

“ What would you have me do?” cried the duchess, impa- 
tiently. 

“ Desperate diseases require desperate remedies,” said Lady 
Hilda; “ and as I see your case, there is but one remedy— only 
one. You must send him away, bad as it may seem; you 
must send him a^vay, and not see him again until you have 
conquered your love.” 

“ That is one side of the picture,” she said; “ now give me 
the other.” 


222 


A THOEN W HEK' HEAKT. 


“ If you refuse to do this and go on as you are doing now, 
the result will be ah elopement, or worse. 

‘‘ Well,” said the duchess, with a tragic air, I accept my 
fate — I will not fight against it. I shall never send him away 
from me, because he is the only comfort I have in life, and I 
love him — I am not ashamed to say that I love him. You 
talk to me. Miss Dunn — you should rather go and preach to 
those who sold me, and who sell such as me every day — preach 
to the“ mothers who teach their daughters there is no good but 
money, who mislead them and tell them love is only a feverish' 
dream, and leave them to find out too late that love is life."'^ 

She paused for a few minutes, exhausted by the passion of 
her words. 

“ Why was I cheated out of my birthright, love? Why was 
I cheated, duped, and deceived^ — told that love was a silly 
pastime? Love has come to me, and I find it a tragedy. Why 
was I married to one old enough to be my grandfather, to find 
afterward that I had a heart to love and a soul to understand? 
I know now that I was, cheated — that I was made to laugh at 
love, made to believe wealth and title everything; made to 
believe that to be a duchess was to stand on the highest pinna- 
cle of earthly happiness. Surely, if I go wrong, if I do wrong 
it will be the fault of those who deceived me, and not my 
own.'’^ 

“ It will be yours, Lurline. You may have been most 
cruelly deceived, but you have a conscience of your own. You 
can not falsify it; you know right from wrong. ” 

‘‘ I shall never send him away from me,^^ said the duchess; 
‘‘ never! I would rather shut the daylight from my eyes.-’^ 

“ But, Lurline, you, the wife of one of the most honored 
peers in England — you do not surely admit that you love an- 
other man?^^ 

Duchess Lurline turned to her with a glorious light on her 
face. 

“ I do not see what you see; I know nothing of shame and 
disgrace — I never shall know them; but I love Lord Dun- 
haven.” 

Lady Hilda clasped her hands. 

“ May Heaven help us all!” she said. 

The duchess looked at her. 

“ It does not concern you,” she said, coldly: “it does not 
hurt you, and I can take care of myself. I can keep my own 
good name, and take care of myself. ” 

But Lady Hilda would not be repulsed; she would not listen 
to cold words^ she would not have, cold looks. 


A thor:^ in her heart. 


22S 


Yoa know that it is because I love yon/^ she said. “ From 
the love of my heart, I speak words that if I loved you less, I 
should never speak. Oh, my darling, stop and think. I have 
known terrible tragedies where love became master. You are 
so young, your position so exalted, the duke trusts you so im- 
plicitly, the world respects you; stop and think before you lose 
all this for a mere shadow. " 

“It is not a shadow to me,” said the duchess, “and, 
Mamie, you are too severe. Why should I lose any of these? 
I can keep them and Lord Dunhaven^s love as well.” 

“ Evil will come of it,^^ cried Lady Hilda; “you will not 
take my warning, and evil will come. ” 

“ If it does,^^ said the duchess, proudly, “ it will comfort 
you to think that you foresaw it. ” 

“You are cruel to me, Lurline. Oh, my dear, do not 
harden your heart against me or against what I am saying; do 
be warned. If you will not send him from you, try at least to 
be less loving with him. ” 

“ I can never alter to him,” cried Duchess Lurline. “ I can 
never change. I will kiss you, Mamie, and forgive you. You 
mean well — all that you say is said out of pure love for me; 
but you are mistaken. See, it would be easier for me to take 
the heart living and beating from my breast than to take from 
that heart its love. We must say no more. ” 

Looking at the fair face. Lady Hilda said to herself that it 
would be quite useless to say more. The only thing she could 
do was to watch and pray. Duchess Lurline flung her arms 
round Lady Hilda^s neck. 

“How beautiful love is,” she said; “how sweet! how it 
changes. the whole world! how it seems to unlock the world of 
beauty! how it makes everything bright and beautiful! It 
would be better to be without life than without love. ” 

“ So many people misuse the word,” said Lady Hilda. 
“ In real love, the first element is self-sacrifice, and the no- 
blest love is when we love the soul better than the body.^^ 

The duchess looked up with a pretty gesture of alarm. 
“You are going to lecture me again, she cried. 

“Ho, I am not. I was going to say that it was only the 
most miserable love in the world that would drag the soul of 
the loved one into sin. ” 

“ Speak plainly,” said the duchess. ^ “ Eo you think I am 
leading Lord Dunhaven^s soul into sin?” 

“ I think you are running it into danger, and that those who 
love the danger will perish in it. ” 

“ I would rather perish ten times over than that he should 


224 


A THOEN IN HER HEART. 


be hurt/^ said the young girl; “ but he will not be. It is you 
who are fanciful, and I will not listen to any of your fancies. 
Go to your room and go to sleep; we shall both of us have 
lost our roses to-morrow. Do you remember the moonlight on 
the lilies — how beautiful it was! Good-night, Mamie, and 
thank you.^^ 

But when the Duchess Lurline stood alone in her room the 
smile died away from her face. 

“ I love him,^^ she said to herself, ‘‘ and I will not send 
him away.'’^ 

She looked more like an angel than a mortal woman, her 
long hair falling in a golden shower over her white dress, her 
white hands clasped as she walked up and down her room. 

“ No, T shall never send him away; why should I? Why 
should I make both him and myself suffer? Those who 
trained me and married me must have known that some time 
or other I should learn to love; they must have known that 
youth loves youth. I will do no wrong. I will keep my fair 
name; I will keep piy faith, my honor, and my loyalty un- 
touched; but I will also keep him and his love. Why should 
I not?^^ 

While Lady Hilda flung herself on her knees to ask from 
Heaven that help which earth could not give, she made to 
herself a resolution. Talking, warning, advising, were of no 
use, but without seeming in the least to interfere, she would 
watch them. She would be with them when she could; she 
would find companions for them, so as to prevent the long 
tete-a4etes. It might be that the duke would get better and 
be able to spend more time with them. 

That night the duke said *to his doctor: 

‘‘ I feel very ill. Do not tell the duchess; she is so young, 
I do not like her to be troubled; but unless I feel some change, 
I do not think that I shall live.'’^ 

Dark days were coming for Duchess Lurline. 


CHAPTER LL 

A LONELY HEART — A LONELY HOME. 

What could she do for them? That was th^ thought which 
day by day filled her heart and mind, as day by day she saw 
the fatal love increase between them. She tried the role she 
had setjierself; she tried to be with them as much as possible, 
but that in no way stemmed the evil. She could not say to 
him that he must not sit and look at the fair, sweet face, that 


A THORK IIT HER HEART. 


^25 


he must lut listen to the music of that most sweet voice, that 
he must not watch her every movement — she could not help 
these things. 

Yet no moment of peace came to her, either by night or by 
day. It was her fault-~all her fault. She could see it plainly 
now that it was too late — she ought not to have left him; she 
should have been more patient; and just because it was her 
fault, it seemed to her that she must do all she could. It was 
not easy. When the sun shone on the roses and the lovely 
laughing world seemed to unite them, when Lord D unhaven 
would say, ‘^Duchess Lurline, come and see the roses, or. 

Duchess Lurline, if you will find a seat under the cedar I 
will read to you/’ it was not easy then to intrude herself, to 
ask if she too might listen if he were going to read. She 
could do it sometimes, not often; but it made no difference. 
Lord D unhaven never said to himself that he wanted to talk 
to the duchess about his affection for her; he did not pur- 
posely seek for long tete-a-Utes with her. He was so secure in 
himself, in his good intentions, that he said as much when 
Lady Hilda was with them as when they were alone. He had 
never owned to himself that he loved her, though he worshiped 
the very sound of her name. He tried to blind himself to 
realities, and in some measure he succeeded. 

Lady Hilda saw that she was quite powerless, she could but 
watch and pray. 

One lovely, sunlight morning, some of their visitors had left 
them, and those expected had not arrived; when they rose 
from the breakfast-table. Lord Dunhaven said to the mistress 
of Feilihurst: 

“ Nothing could be more pleasant this morning than to go 
out among the roses; and if you like I will read to you. " 

“I should like that better than anything else, said the 
duchess, and Lady Hilda, who stood by, raised her eyes with 
such sudden wistful entreaty that the earl was touched by it.^^ 

‘‘ Will you come with us. Miss Dunn?^-’ he asked, quietly. 

“ Yes, I should like it very much,^^ she answered. 

They went all three together; they walked slowly through 
the rose garden. The duchess loved that spot better than any 
other in Fernhurst, just because the roses grew there. 

“ I love roses, she said to Lord Dunhaven, as they stood 
looking at the wonderful variety — crimson, white damask, 
maiden blush, moss rose — all in such luxuriant profusion. 

“ I wish,’^ he said, “ that I were a rose. I should ask noth- 
ing better, duchess, than to live for one hour in your hands, 
then die.^^ 


32(5 


A THORK IK HER HEART. 


“ Ifc would be a short she said. 

“ It would be longer in its happiness than a life of fifteen 
years/'’ he said. I can picture it. I would be a deep crim- 
son rose; I would have all the beauty and perfume of the 
queen of flowers; then you, walking through the rose garden, 
would gather me; then — 

“Well, after then?^^ she said, laughingly, “what after 
then?^^ 

“ Those sweet white hands would caress me; the fair face 
bend over me; perhaps the sweet lips would praise me, and 
then, bending over me, you would kiss me, and in that kiss I 
would die, give up my flower life, in that one kiss my leaves 
should all fall to the ground and die there. 

“ That is like a little poem," she said. “I am very glad 
that you are not a rose so that one light touch of mine might 
destroy yon/^ 

“ The destruction would be very pleasant, he whispered. ’ 

And Lady Hilda, hearing all that passed, clinched her white 
fingers, lest the hot jealous pain should force a cry from her 
lips. They went on to the great cedar-tree that stood in the 
grounds — a tree that was the admiration of every one who saw 
it — one of the finest cedars in England; it was like a beautiful 
shady house; it was of enormous size, and the great drooping 
boughs made a complete room — the duchess called it her 
garden room. Pretty picturesque chairs and tables were placed 
under the shade. It was a little earthly paradise — the beauti- 
ful light, the rich greensward, the bright flowers blooming all 
round, the music of the birds; no wonder that Duchess Lur- 
line preferred it to the magnificent drawing-room wfierein 
kings and queens had been entertained. They were soon 
seated, and Lord Dunhaven began to read to them; bat^^ery 
soon the book fell from his hands and he began to talk. 

“ There is a pretty view of the wood from here that re- 
minds me of my home — Havendale," he said; “ it is so much 
like the view from the coppice. You have not seen my home — 
Havendale — have you, duchess?’^ 

“ No; I have seen but few of the ancient houses of Eng- 
land,’^ she said; “ very few.^^ 

Lady Hilda’s heart had given one great beat at the sound of 
that word, Havendale, that had been her father’s home, the 
great house where her fair young mother died. How often 
she had longed to see it. If she had never left him, they 
would have been living at Havendale now. How her whole 
heart and soul longed for some news of the place which should 
have been her own. She looked at the master of it, but he 


A THORK IK HER HEART. 


227 


had eyes for no one and nothing except the lovely young face 
before him. 

“ Do you live at Havendale, Lord Dunhaven?^^ asked Lady 
Hilda, after a short pause. He glanced at her with a bright 
smile. 

‘‘ I ought to do so; it has always been the home of the head 
of the Dimhavens — the last earl was the only one who lived or 
died out of it. 

“ Why did he not live there asked the duchess. 

Lord Dunhaven shrugged his shoulders. 

“ HS was eccentric. Duchess Lurline — a handsome spend- 
thrift in his youth, a miser in his age: I would rather not 
speak of him.'’ ^ 

Lady Hilda bent her head, that no one might see the sudden 
pallor of her face. It was of her father they were speaking, the 
father whom she had kissed for the first and the last time as 
he lay dead. She said no more, but the curiosity of Duchess 
Lurline was aroused. 

You need not talk about him unless you like,^'’ she said, 
“ but I am much interested. What relation was he to you, 
this old earl?*"’ she asked. 

‘‘ My father and he were cousins,^’ replied Lord Dunhaven. 

‘‘ Then how came you to succeed him? Had he no sons of 
his own?^^ 

“ No,'’^ replied Lord Dunhaven, “ he had no sons; he had 
one daughter, and I believe he hated her. He never forgave 
her because she was not a boy. I have heard my mother say 
that he never kissed her once in his life. 

“Poor girl murmured the duchess, in tones of sweetest 
compassion. 

“ Yes, she was greatly to be pitied, he replied, sadly; “ no 
one knows how much. 

Duchess Lurline was looking with curious eyes into his face. 

“ Tell me about her,^^ she said. “ I am interested in her; 
what becanae of her?^^ 

A sunbeam came over the greensward, a bright-eyed bird 
hopped under the shade, the wind stirred the deep boughs, but 
where those two sat there was no sound. The words that 
the duchess spoke seemed to linger in the air. 

Lady Hilda rose from her seat; her heart was beating, her 
pulse throbbing, her brain seemed to be on fire. She could 
not remain' there to hear what answer he had to make. Dear 
heavens! what would he say? She must hear it; she could 
not go. She leaned against one of the big thick branches. 
She was fascinated; she could not go. She must hear it, if 


228 


A THOKN IN HEK HEART. 


the hearing of it killed her. They were too much engrossed 
in each other to think of her. She buried her face in her 
hands and bent her head on the cedar bough. 

Duchess Lurline repeated her question. 

“ Tell me/^ she said, ‘‘ what became of herp^ 

He was silent for a few minutes. Then he answered : 

“ Do you not know? Have you never heard 
“ Ho, I never heard even of her existence until this moment. 
Of course the name of Dunhaven, as belonging to the liauU 
noblesse, has always been familiar to me, but I know no de- 
tails of the family history; tell me. 

“ I must tell you, since you ask me,'’^ he said. “ Can you 
not guess what became of her?^^ 

“No, how should she asked. 

“ I — I married her. She became my wife.'’^ 

“ Your wife?^^ cried the duchess; “ is it possible you mar- 
ried her? What was her name?” 

“ Lady Hilda Dunhaven,” he replied. 

“ You married her,^'^ repeated the duchess. “ It seems 
hardly credible. What was she like?” 

“ 1 can hardly expect you to believe me;” he said; “ but I 
hardly know what she was like. If I were to meet her, I am 
afraid I should not know her. I am ashamed to say so, but I 
do not believe I ever really looked into her face. My mother 
said she gave great promise of being a beautiful woman — all 
the women of the Dunhaven family are beautiful. ” 

“ You never looked at her,” cried the duchess, in wonder. 

‘ ‘ I can not understand — nay, I do not believe it. Did you 
not love her?” 

“ It was no question of love,^^ he answered. “ I can not 
explain more to you, because the secret is not my own; but it 
was no question whatever of love. ” 

“But did you love her?” persisted the duchess. 

“ Since you ask me the question — ^no. I did not love her. ” 
There was no one to see the agony of the white face that 
lay on the cedar bough, or to hear the stifled cry that went 
up from that heart to Heaven. 

“ I did not love her,” he said; “yet I know now that she 
was worthy of love. Poor girl, it would have been far better 
for one of us to have died than for that marriage to have 
taken place. ” 

“ Where is she now?” said the duchess. 

He looked at her. 

“ Do not ask me,^^ he said. “ I would tell you every secret 
of my OWU; though I may not tell hers. There is a mystery 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


229 


about my marri^jd life, Lurline, I may tell no one. That mys- 
tery has made for me a lonely heart, a lonely home, a lonely 
life — 

He stopped sudd^ly. A low, wailing cry came to them, 
and, looking up, he saw that Lady Hilda had fallen, with her 
face upturned, on the grass. 

“She has fainted, said the duchess. “It must be the 
strong perfume; she will soon be all right. What a beautiful 
face it is— how white and still 


CHAPTER LH. 

“ THE WORLD WELL LOST FOR LOVE.'^ 

“ It was the perfume, the duchess said ; “it was the 
heat. 

Lord D unhaven believed, but Lady Hilda spoke no word. 
She did not tell him she was the young wife they had been 
discussing. 

“ You must come back to the house and let me get you 
some wine,” the earl said; and she went back, white, silent, 
trembling, leaning on his arm. 

“ It would have been better if one or the other had died.” 
The words seemed to her a death-knell; they were cruel, but 
they were true. Better for him to have lost the money, to 
have been poor — even in exile, than to have a lonely heart and 
a lonely life. He might have won a fortune; now he could 
never win a wife. He could have made money; he could never 
make love in a home that was desolate. 

“It was all a mistake,^ ^ she cried to herself, with bitter 
tears; “ the will, the marriage. But the most fatal mistake 
of all had been her leaving him — that could never be rectified. 
“ Whatever happens, she would say to herself, “ it will be 
my fault. 

Ho one could say what would happen. The sultry August 
was coming to an end; most of the visitors had gone, and the 
duke had pressed Lord Dunhaven to remain for the shooting. 

“ I shall never go out shooting again, said the duke; “ my 
sporting days are ended; but I like to hear all about it. Every 
day you go ^u must come and give me every detail, and al- 
ways show me your bag. 

80 it was settled that he should remain; and the month of 
September came, warm, soft, and beautiful, as only it can 
come. 

“We shall have an autumn as beautiful as the summer/^ 


■230 


A THOEN IN HER HEART. 


Lord Dunhaven said to the duchess, whose love-lit eyes said 
plainly how beautiful it would be to her. 

It was a magnificent autumn night; the air full of perfumes 
and song, the flowers still in bloom. To them it passed like a 
summer dream; to Lady Hilda it was one long dream of pain. 
She saw so plainly what would happen and she was so power- 
less to prevent it; she saw that day by day the love between 
them grew stronger and sweeter — that heart and soul were 
drawn nearer together — that life held nothing but their love 
for each other. It was poetical, graceful, beautiful, but how 
would it end? She asked herself if it were possible, after hav- 
ing lived all these weeks with the duchess, he would ever live 
without her again? And her own heart, her own instinct an- 
swered, No; a certain, keen conviction came to her that they 
would never part again. > 

The autumn was passing, and the duke did not renew his 
invitation; he had many friends; perhaps he thought it was 
time some others enjoyedliis splendid hospitality. He said one 
morning, when he felt better, and had come down to breakfast 
with them : 

“We shall miss you. Lord Dunhaven, during the long 
winter months — ^you must come back to us in the spring/^ 

The earl bowed his acknowledgments in silence; but Lady 
Hilda saw his eyes meet the loving ones of Duchess Lurline, 
and she understood the glance that passed between them — it 
meant that there should he no parting for them but death. 

How that one long, lingering, loving glance haunted her 
with a presentiment -of coming evil! She thought she would 
see what the duchess herself felt on the matter They were 
alone together that day in Lurline ’s room. Lady Hilda said 
to her: 

“We shall soon have winter here now, with the frost and 
snow.-^^ 

“ Yes,^^ said the duchess, with dreamy eyes; “it ‘will soon 
be here."^^ 

“ How much you will miss Lord Dunhaven, she continued; 
/‘your life will seem quite changed when he is gone. What 
month does he leave us in?^'’ 

“ He is going at the end of October,^' was th^ quiet reply. 

The words were simple enough, but something — a strange, 
firm look had come into the beautiful face — something of 
calm and self-reliance; a strange smile played round the 
lovely lips. 

“ What are you thinking of?"" asked Lady Hilda. 


A THOEK IK SEE HEAET. 


231 


The young girl waited in silence for some minutes, then she 
said : 

“ I am thinking that those quaint words are true: “ The 
world is well lost for love/^ 

Again something in her manner struck Lady Hilda — a cer- 
tain quiet, grave restraint. 

“ Those are words that require explanation,-’^ she said. 
“ The world is well lost for a good love, but never for a bad 
one. To lose the world with honor is to lose it well — to lose 
it with dishonor is death. Take yourself for instance. 
Duchess Lurline; suppose in some mad moment you were to 
say to yourself that the world was well lost for love, do you 
know all that would entail on you?’^ 

“ No,” said the duchess quietly^ ‘‘ I do not.’^ 

“ Let me show you. If, in some mad, romantic mood, you 
said to yourself that the world was well lost for love — and — 
you left your home — ” Looking fixedly at her, she saw a 
flush rise on the fair young face — the dear eyes fell before 
hers. If ever you are tempted to be so mad, let me show 
you what you would lose. Your fair name, nothing could 
give it back to you; even if the man you left with married 
you, you would never be received by one respectable person; 
you would lose your position, your state, rank, 'and every- 
thing belonging to them.^-’ 

A quiet smile came over the fair face. Lady Hilda saw it. 

“ You would lose what is djearer to you than any of these 
things,” she said. “ Your husband loves you and trusts you; 
there is no doubt that if you proved so foully disloyal and un- 
true to him that the knowledge of it would kill him. Would 
you ever be happy again if that happened?” 

“ It is not bound to happen,” said the girl duchess; 
‘‘ men-’s hearts, so I have heard you say, are not soon broken.” 

“ He is old and feeble; he has been very good to you, Lur- 
line.” 

I never have compla,ined; I complain of those who sold 
me, who deceived me, and said love was folly; I complain of 
them, not him; and still despite all that you may say. Miss 
Dunn, I maintain that the world is well lost for love.” 

‘‘ For honorable love, Lurline; not the false passion which 
takes the name of love,” said Lady Hilda. 

The duchess raised her fair face with proud eyes. 

“ I say that love is the greatest gift,” she cried. 

Yes, honorable love,” repeated Lady Hilda, and Duchess 
Lurline turned from her with an incredulous smile. A keen, 
certain conviction came to Lady Hilda^s mind that the tempta- 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


m 


tion would be too strong for thorn, and that when Lord Dun- 
haven left the house the duchess would go with him. She 
could hardly explain to herself why she had this strong pre- 
sentiment — nothing would drive it away. 

What could she do? Watch them, watch them closely, and 
frustrate their design, even if she had to call the duke to her 
aid; it should never be carried out; she must save her husband 
from so deadly a sin; she must save the fair-faced child from 
ruin. 

As the days grew colder, and the flowers died, as the leaves 
faded and the birds sought for sunnier climes, her watch be- 
came keener; she felt , quite sure of it; one flve minutes olf 
her self-imposed duty and it might happen. It was nearly 
the end of \)ctober, and one day at luncheon the earl said to 
the duke that he thought of leaving Fernhurst on the follow- 
ing Tuesday. There were polite expressions of regret, earnest 
entreaties that he would come again, and once more Lady 
Hilda saw pass between them that quiet glance of perfect un- 
derstanding. ^ 

Tuesday came, a cold, miserable day, with a chill wind and 
steady rain. 

“ My last day at Fernhurst, said the earl, and Lady Hilda 
heard the ring of pain in his voice; he was restless and un- 
happy, not at all like a prosperous lover. 

“Have you been happy here. Lord Dunhaven?^^ asked 
Lady Hilda. 

“Too happy, he replied; “Heaven help me, far too 
happy. 

They said but little that last day; Lady Hilda ^s watch was 
unvarying; they had no interview, no tete-a-tete; the only 
change that was perceptible in the duchess was, that her fair 
face was pale as death, even her lips had lost their color. 
Lady Hilda saw that she stood for a whole hour at the win- 
dow watching the leaden ^kies and the dripping rain. She 
went up to her. 

“ What are you thinking of,^^ sh^ asked; “ that wet dreary 
prospect is enough to make you low-spirited. 

“ I am thinking of my favorite words, said the duchess; 
“ The world is well lost for love.^^ 

Lady Hilda made no answer; a keen sense of pain came 
over her. How this fair-haired child must have suffered, 
even though she had never spoken of her pain. Then she 
said to herself that most certainly her suspicions were correct, 
and that to-day, above all other days, she must keep her watch 
most strictly. The earl was to leave Fernhurst at five in the 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


233 


afternoon. She saw him give the duchess a letter; what were 
its contents she could not even guess. She heard too, while 
they were talking, these words: “Until death. She said 
them, and the earl repeated: “ Yes, until death. 

“ What did they mean? Were they pledging their love and 
troth? It sounded like it. So keen was her watch, so intense 
her anxiety over them, that she had not time to think of her- 
self, or to realize that her husband was going away, and the 
human probability was that she should see him no more; she 
had to trample down the pain, to crush the anguish and de- 
spair, to remind herself that she must forget everything else, 
and think only of them, of their safety and honor. 

She stood quite still while Lord Dunhaven bade the duchess 
farewell; he bent down to kiss her hands, while her eyes were 
filled with tears; but Lady Hilda felt sure his farewell was 
merely to save appearances. It was not likely that two who 
had loved each other so well would part so. 

“ He said but one word to Duchess Lurline; he looked in 
her beautiful face, down in her beautiful eyes, and then he 
said to her: 

“ Eemember.^^ 

■ Then, turning to Lady Hilda, he held out his hand to her. 
She saw that he was deadly pale — that his eyes were filled with 
tears. He could not speak; he held her hand tightly clasped 
-:,for some few minutes, then he was gone. A great darkness 
came over her — a great sound filled her ears; she loved him 
better than she loved her life, and he was gone. 


CHAPTEE LIII. 

A NOBLEMAN REBUKED. 

Lord Dunhaven had been gone a week, and as yet noth- 
ing had happened to corroborate Lady Hilda's suspicions. 
She had seen but little of the duchess, who contrived now to 
spend the greater part of her time in her rooms. They did 
not talk much. This suspicion of Lady Hilda's stood like a 
barrier between them. Lady Hilda began to have a faint hope 
that she was mistaken. It was possible that her suspicions 
had been deepened and magnified by her fears. Everything 
seemed going on well; there was nothing to give her any 
alarm. True, she thought of the earl's look when he was 
leaving Lurline, and the solemnity of that one word: 

“Eemember." 

She was beginning to hope more and safer less, when one 


234 : 


A THOEK IN HEE HEAET. 


morning the duke asked her to open the letter-bag. There 
were a great number of letters; among them was one for the 
duchess. She recognized Lord Dunhaven^s handwriting; it 
was a thick packet, too. The duchess did not open it, but hid 
it away in her dress. 

An hour later. Lady Hilda, going into her room, saw the' 
sheets of paper, closely written, lying on the ground around 
her, and the duchess kneeling, her face buried in her hands, 
sobbing as though her heart would break. 

Lady Hilda went away without speaking one word. These 
might be salutary tears — she would not interrupt them. Yet 
the duchess seemed very strange all that day — so absent in 
mind, so sad, so full of thought; she was hardly to be recog- 
nized as the brilliant, beautiful child of a few months back. 
Her manner was strange, too. One question struck Lady 
Hilda very much;, she asked if there would be a shining moon 
that night, of whether it would be dark, Ho sooner had she 
asked the question than it seemed to Lady Hilda she repented 
it; she murmured something about not sleeping when the 
moon shone. Another thing struck Lady Hilda forcibly — 
she who always liked to talk over the events of the day, who 
had always asked her friend to go with her, and had always 
been so willing to let her, on this night said: 

“ I will not ask you to come to my room to-night, Mamie. 

I am tired; good-night. 

The hands that touched Lady Hilda^s were cold as death, 
the lips burned her like fire, she looked in that beautiful face 
and the eyes drooped before hers. 

Lady Hilda was uneasy; she went to her room, but she could 
not rest. She opened her window and looked out; the night 
was dark, the moon quite hidden; a few stars gave a pale, 
faint gleam, hardly to be called a light; the wind wailed round 
the great house, and the bare branches of the tall trees stirred 
gently. It was not a cheerful night; a solemn, silent darkness 
seemed to brood over the earth; the tall chrysanthemums and , 
the fair flowers were fast dying. Yet there was rest out under 
this autumn sky. 

She stood there watching the silent night; hour after hour 
passed, but still she thought of nothing but her love and her 
pain. She heard the great clock in the stables strike twelve, 
and she said to herself it was time she went to bed; yet the 
night was so tempting to her, the quiet so grateful, she could 
not leave it.’ 

Her thoughts went back with a long sigh to Duchess Lur- 
line. ' Could it be possible, after all, that there was anything 


A THOilH m HER HEART. 535 

wrong? She had been strange and unlike herself ever since 
that letter came. 

While these thoughts ran through her mind, she heard a 
sound as of some one moving quietly and gently. Her first 
thought was that it was one of the servants; then a horrible 
fear, a terrible doubt, to which she could give no name, came 
over her — a fear that made her hasten quickly to the door, 
open it and look out. It was quite dark in the corridor, the 
lamps were all out, the door of the duchesses room was closed. 

“ It must have been my fancy,^^ she thought. 

She looked over the railings of the staircase into the hall 
below, and there, unless her senses played her false, a tall fig- 
ure, draped in black, moved silently along. 

Then it was no fancy; she heard the slow and careful draw- 
ing of the bolts of the great hall door; she tried to cry out, but 
all sound died on her lips; she tried to move, but it was as 
though her limbs were held in an iron vise. Oh, God, who was 
it stealing out of the house in the silence and darkness of mid- 
night? Who was it? 

Suddenly she remembered that from the window in the cor- 
ridor she could see who left the house; she opened it quickly, 
and there gliding quietly along the western terrace she saw the 
same tall, dark figure, and she knew it was the Duchess of 
Nairn, Lurline, Duchess of Nairn, stealing from her home in 
the silence of night. There was little need to ask where she 
was going, or to ask who was there to meet her. Quickly as 
possible. Lady Hilda hurried down the great staircase, and out 
of the door; but the tall figure had disappeared; a sudden 
thrill of fear passed over her. What if she could not find 
her? What if she went the wrong way? There were so many 
ways leading out of the house. She looked at the dark sky, 
help lay behind the clouds. 

“ Oh, God,^^ she cried, help me, help me to find her and 
to save her!^^ 

She saw it all now; the earl had gone away first to make 
arrangements for her flight; she understood now what the 
word “ Kemember meant. The letter of the morning had 
been, doubtless, to tell her every detail of his arrangement, 
and now, in all probability, he was there to meet her. Which 
way must she run to find them? If she were only five min- 
utes late she would lose them, and all would be lost. Her 
limbs trembled so that it would have been easier for her to 
have fallen to the ground than to have run, but she must 
hasten; she must save her husband from deadly sin; she must 
save golden-haired Lurline from the most cruel ruin. 


A TSORK in HER fiEAR^. 


m 


“ Oh, my God, help me to find them,^^ she cried again, and 
this time a sudden inspiration came to her. If the duchess 
had gone out by the terrace, in all , probability she would 
leave the park by the small gate that led to the high-road 
without passing either of the lodges. A carriage would wait 
for her there and none see it. 

She ran as fast as she could; the way was long and the night 
was dark. She ran for dear life. One minute would make 
all the difference in the world. If she could but see Lurline 
she would hold her so tightly that nothing on earth should 
tear her away. She would struggle with the earl over her; 
he should have to slay her before he took the duchess away. 

On she ran in the dark, silent, solemn night, full of shadows 
and of fears. There was no tall figure, no sound, but her 
heart sunk with deadly despair. 

“ They will be gone before even I know which road they 
have taken, and she cried again, “ Oh, God, help me!^^ 

It was like a sudden answer to her prayer — when she reached 
the iron gate she saw them standing side by side. She heard 
the earTs words: 

- ‘‘A carriage is waiting half a mile lower down the road.^^ 

She heard the words and then she knew that in all her sus- 
picions and fears she had been right. She heard a passionate 
cry from the duchess and then he kissed her. 

“ Heaven help me to save her,” she cried again. 

She went up to her and caught her in her arms. 

“ Lurline,” she cried, “ Duchess of Nairn, in the name 
of Heaven what are j^ou doing?” 

The duchess cried out in alarm; the earl started back with 
an angry face. 

“My darling,” sobbed Lady Hilda, holding her tightly 
clasped, “ my darling, God has sent me to fetch you back, to 
prevent you from doing this wicked deed, to bid you send him 
from you and go back to your husband and your home. It is 
God who has sent me; you must listen. ” 

The passion of pain in her voice awed them both; Lurline 
was silent, the earl cried out: 

“ Miss Dunn, you have no right to follow and to interfere. ” 

“ I have a right, she answered, “ the right of one Chris- 
tian to save two others from the brink of hell. I have a right, 
because I come in the name of God. ” 

She clasped one arm round the drooping figure, she raised 
the other as though appealing to Heaven. 

“ No right. Lord Dunhaven?” she repeated. “ What right 
have you to steal another man's wife? You, a peer of Eng- 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 




land, a* belted earl, is it so you repay the hospitality, the 
trust, the faith, the friendship that this girl^s husband has 
shown you? You would cry shame on the man who stole his 
money, you wo^ld imprison a man who snared a bird in his 
woods; what should be done to you, who have eaten his 
bread, lived under his roof, yet would steal his wife?^' 

‘‘ It is not stealing,^ ^ he said, smarting under the lash of 
her words, “ it is not stealing. She goes with me of her own 
free will; do you not, my darling? Do not blame me or her, 
blame those who sold her in her youth to an old man for his 
money; she loves me and I will make her happy. 

You would make her miserable, she cried. “ There 
can be no happiness without honor. Speak plain words, my 
Lord Dunhaven; tell her you are going to sacrifice her to your 
own selfish passion, that you are going to strip her of all that 
woman holds most dear — her fair name, her purity, her faith, 
her loyalty — that you will force her to dishonor the name 
her husband has intrusted to her. Say all this in plain words, 
but do not deceive her by using the high and holy name of 
love. 

“ You speak freely, he said. 

I speak in the name of honor and of Heaven, Lord Dun- 
haven. She is but a child, so tender in heart, so young in 
years, it is cruel to wreck a beautiful young life just begun. 
My lord, you have a noble heart — listen to it; it pleads for 
her, her innocence, her good name. Ah me, should you, who 
love, be the one to take both from her. 

“ You do not understand,^*' he said, hotly. 

“ Yes, I understand,^' she said. “ It is you who are blind 
and deaf. Disguise it as you will, here is a plain fact; you 
have asked the Duchess of Nairn, another man's wife, to go 
away with you, to leave her home and her husband. Tell me, 
you who call yourself man, gentleman, nobleman — can any- 
thing on earth make such a fact as that right?' ' 

And he was silent, for he had no word ta answer her. 


CHAPTEK LIV. 

SAVED ON THE BRINK. 

There had surely never been a more dramatic scene than 
this — the dark sky, the great bare trees, the gleam of faint 
starlight, the tall, queenly girl with royal face and figure, who 
stood clasping the drooping, weeping girl, defying the whole 
world, as it were, for her sake; the man who stood with a 


338 


A THORK IN’ HER HEART. 

world of passion on his face, at war with everything and every 
one, knowing every word Lady Hilda said was true, yet loath 
to lose the beautiful girl he loved so well. 

“You do not answer me. Lord D unhaven, said Lady 
Hilda, “ you know that I am right. You know that in ask- 
ing this young girl to forsake her home and her husband you 
are asking her to do a deadly wrong. You admit that?’^ 

“ The world would say so, I suppose, he replied, slowly. 

“ The world would be right, she said, proudly. Then she 
turned to the weeping girl who lay on her breast. “ My dar- 
ling, she said, “ you will come back with me. It is God who 
has sent me to fetch you. You must not refuse; let me take 
you back, and • the dark secret of this night shall never be 
known. Come home with me, Lurline.-’^ 

“ Leonard, what shall I do? If it be God who has sent her, 
I dare not refuse. What shall I do?’^ 

“ There is truth in what she says,^^ he replied; “ but, oh, 
Lurline, how can we part? How can I go without you? How 
can I leave you behind ?^^ 

“It must be done, said Lady Hilda, “the duke trusted 
his young wife to my care. Whatever you may be, my Lord 
D unhaven, I shall be true to my trust. No one shall take 
this child from me. You will have to take her dead, if you 
take her at all. She shall not leave me while I live.-’^ 

“ Lurline, speak,^^ cried the earl, “ tell me — but the 
words died on his lips. 

There came sounds of quick footsteps, of ahorse galloping, 
of men shouting, and the little group by the trees stood par- 
alyzed with amazement. 

“ What is the matter?^^ cried the earl, as the men galloped 
past, and another one ran to open the gate. “ What is the 
matter?^ ^ 

They did not stop to answer him, they did not stop to see. 
who it was standing there; but one of the men, as he hastened 
by, cried: 

“ We are going to Hardale for doctors; the duke is dead.’^ 
And before the words had died away he galloped on. 

“ The duke dead!^^ cried Lord Dunhaven, “it can not be 
true. Dead — 

The duchess had flung herself on her knees on the grass, 
and hid her face in her hands, while Lady Hilda said : 

“ Y^ou have cause to kneel and thank God as woman never 
thanked Him before. You are saved on the very brink. 
Thank Him from your heart. If I had been five minutes 


A THORK IN HER HEART. ;339 

later, your good name would have been lost forever. Thank 
Him, Duchess Lurline, for your dead husband^s sake.^^ 

Duchess Lurline bovved her head and wept like a child. 

“ How terrible, she said with a shudder, “ that I should 
have been running away from him when he lay dying! Oh, 
God forgive me, for I have done wickedly wrong. 

The earl raised her and pillowed her head for one minute 
to his breast. 

“ My darling,^’ he said, “ forgive me. I should have known 
better; the angel of death frightens me. I see that 1 
have done wrong; it is all my fault, sweet Lurline; not 
yours. Say you forgive me, and I will go — I will go,’* 

“ I forgive you/’ she whispered. ‘‘You were no more to 
blame than I. God pardon us both; we were mad, Leonard — 
both of us mad.^^ 

He bent down and kissed the lovely pale face, then turned 
to Lady Hilda and held out his hand to her. 

“ Will you touch my hand?^^ he said to her. “ You have 
saved us. I owe you a debt that the gratitude and affection of 
my whole life will never repay. You have saved her fair name, 
and my honor; may God bless you and reward you.^^ 

He bent down and kissed her hand; it was the first time, 
and that kiss seemed to burn her for hours afterward. 

“ Take her back to the house, he said. “ You will find 
some excuse if her absence has been noticed; but most likely 
in the confusion it will not have been observed. Good-bye. 

The next minute he had hastened down the high-road 
alone, and they were left to return to the house. Lady Hilda 
kissed the young girl with a passion of love and tenderness. 

“ You are saved, my darling,-’^ she said. “Thank God, 
you are saved. 

As they drew near the castle it was quite evident that some- 
thing unusual had occurred; there were lights in many of the 
windows; they entered by the side door, and went straight to 
Lady Hilda^s room; it took but a moment to strip off* the dark 
traveling dress and find a white dressing-gown. 

“ Now come to the duke^s room,^'’ said Lady Hilda; and 
not one of the servants who saw their young mistress there in 
her white dressing-gown dreamed of what had happened; they 
had thought her long in coming, that was all. Phillis thought 
she had been with Miss Dunn, and the fact of her absence 
had never been noticed. 

The duke^s valet met them at the door of his master ^s 
room. 

“ Do not go in there, your grace, until the doctor has 


240 


A THORN IN TIER HEART. 


been/^ he said. “ Miss Dunn, it is not fitting for her grace 
to enter. 

The duchess raised her pale face, all streaming with tears. 

‘‘ Are you quite sure that he is dead?"’"’ she said, ‘‘ it may 
bo only a fit or a swoon. How did it happen?^'’ 

“ He is dead,^^ said the valet, ‘‘ there Is no mistake about 
it; dead and cold. The duke went to bed at nine. He said 
that he was not sleepy, and asked me to read to him. I read 
until ten. Then ,he said he was tired and wanted to sleep. 
He told me to be quiet and not disturb him. I slept in his 
dressing-room and always kept the door open that I might 
hear the least sound. I listened for some time but all was 
quite silent, and I fell asleep. At twelve I awoke, and there 
was no sound. I lay still again . and listened, feeling sure that 
he was in a deep sleep. Then as the time passed and there 
was no stir I began to feel anxious. I went into his room, 
and spoke to him. There was no answer. I touched him and 
found that he was dead. There is no mistake, your grace, 
one can never mistake death; but do not see him until after 
the doctors have been. • 

“It will be better not,^^ said Lady Hilda. She remem- 
bered how terrible the shock had been to her when she saw 
her father dead. With gentle touch she led the young duchess 
back to her room and remained with her. 

“ God has punished me,” cried the young girl, as she paced 
up and down the room. “ God has punished me for my sin.^^ 

“ Say rather that He has saved you, Lurline; and saved you 
just on the brink. What he has saved you from you will 
never know/-’ 

It was nearly day-break when the doctors said the ladies 
could enter the death-chamber. There lay the dead man 
whose wife had been so near forsaking him. The young 
duchess shuddered as her eyes fell on the white silent figure. 
Lady Hilda, remembering what she had suffered, was full of 
kindest sympathy for her. She stood by her side while the 
duchess went up to the bed whereon her dead husband lay. 

“ Do you think he knows?*” she whispered to Lady Hilda. 
“ Do you think it is possible that he knows?” 

“ No, I do not,” she answered. 

Then Lurline bent her fair face over the dead one, she laid 
her warm, fresh, loving lips on the closed ones — silent forever 
more. 

“ My husband,” she said, “ if you know it, pardon me. I 
have been saved from peril and your good name is safe. If 
you can hear me, forgive me. I was mad, and knew not 


A THOKK IK HER HEART. 


241 

what I was doing.^^ She kissed the dead face. “ He was 
always kind to me/ ^ she said, and then Lady Hilda led her 
away. 

So the castle of Femhurst was shrouded in deepest gloom. 
The dead duke had been much loved by his dependents; it was 
a sorrowful day for them when he died. The heir-at-law came 
down a few days afterward, the duke^s only nephew, now duke 
himself. The castle was nearly filled with friends and law- 
yers, but the young widow saw no one. She remained in her 
room with her faithful companion. Miss Dunn. 

It required all Lady Hilda ^s efforts to prevent her from 
having brain-fever. She could not persuade her to sleep, to 
eat, or to rest. With clasped hands she paced up and down 
the room. • 

“ How nearly I was lost,^^ she said; “ but for you my name 
would be a by-word among men. Mothers would tell their 
children how I ran away when my husband lay dead. If those 
who are here now, who pay me such respect and homage, if 
they only knew. I wish the earth would open and hide me. 
I can never show my face again in the light of day. 

But Lady Hilda always had comfort for her. 
r <« think God loyed you, and saved you because he 

had work for you to do,^^ she would say. “ And remember, 
Lurline, that if He saw the sin. He sees also the repentance.’^ 

‘‘ I do repent,” she cried. “ I would give my life to undo 
my folly. Heaven knows how I repent.” 

The day came when, with all the honors paid to one of his 
rank, the Duke of Nairn was buried — laid to rest in the great 
family vault at Fernhurst, and the new duke reigned in his 
stead. 

Then the will was read. Everyone agreed the duke had 
acted most nobly. To Miss Dunn he left a very handsome 
legacy, begging her always to remain with his beloved wife. 

To Ids beloved wife, Lurline, he left a magnificent fortune, 
and a pretty estate in Kent, called Holmdale; he wished her 
to reside there. No old servant, no old friend was forgotten; 
and the young duke was quite content. Nothing had been 
taken from him, and he prayed the duchess to remain at 
Fernhurst Castle as long as she liked, but her one great wish 
was to be gone; she had so many sorrowful associations there. 

“ Let us go to Holmdale, Mamie,” she said; “ the Castle 
is haunted for me. ” 

Christmas found them settled at Holmdale; and during all 
this time no word h.ad been heard from Lord Dunhaven. They 


2i2 


A THOli^r IN HER HEART. 


never riiciitioiied his name, but he was the only one of whom 
they thought, and so the winter passed away. 


CHAPTER LV. 

THE CRISIS OF A WOMAN ^S LIFE. 

A YEAR and some months had passed since the death of 
the Duke of Nairn. The beautiful smiling spring had com& 
round again and during all this time the young duchess and 
Lady Hilda had resided at Holmdale. 

It had not been an unpleasant time. The world spoke 
highly of the duchess; her widowhood had been a time of quiet 
and retirement; they had asked but few friends to see them — 
their time had been given chiefly to study and reading. Both 
were now accomplished women, and Lady Hilda often told 
Lurline a little wisdom sat gracefully on her golden head. 

They seldom spoke of the tragedy of the past, or of the 
earl, but the duchess was more grateful to her friend than if 
she had saved her from a violent death. 

“I can never prove my gratitude to j'Ou,^^ she said one 
day; it lies too deep.for words. I would share my fortune 
with you if you would take it; I would give you Holmdale if 
you would have it; but you will do neither of these things;, 
how then must I prove my gratitude? I may say as the king 
said: ‘ Ask of me what you will, even should it be the half of 
my kingdom, and I will give it to you.-^ Lady Hilda smiled. 
“ The day may come,^^ she said, ‘‘ when I shall ask a grace 
from you — when it does, remember what you have said. 

“ I shaH remember,^ ^ said the duchess. “ Ah, Mamie, 
had you been five minutes later I would have started on that 
terrible journey — and there would have been no return. , 

But they spoke of it seldom, and tried to forget it. 

The beautiful pure air, the quiet, the rest, the early hours, 
had given to each of them extra beauty. Lady Hilda had 
gained in her superb beauty and the duchess had gained in 
loveliness. 

Then when the hedges were all white and pink with haw- 
thorn, when the fire of the laburnum gleamed, and the snow 
white acacia was in flower, when the roses were budding, and 
the fair smiling earth lay in the golden light of the sun. Lord 
Dunhaven came to Holmdale. 

‘‘You must not be angry with me,^^ he- said as he bent over 
the fair hand of the duchess. “ I have stayed away from you as 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


MS 


lohg as I could. I could not help myself — I was compelled 
to come."" 

She trembled very much when she saw him; but he was full 
of hope. 

‘‘ My darling,"’ he said. I know we did wrong — at least 
I did, for I tempted you — but we have repented, No harm 
came of it' thanks to one who was our guardian angel. We 
have repented very sincerely — you in silence and seclusion, I 
in trying to do good. May we not hope now that Heaven has 
pardoned us? After our hard suifering, may we not have 
some little happiness? Let us begin our friendship — let me 
be your friend. "" 

So it was settled; once more a compact of friendship was 
made between them. Lady Hilda was out when he arrived; 
she was startled on her return to see him seated in the drawing- 
room as though he had been there for years. He sprung to 
meet her with delight in his face; he had grown to think of her 
as the noblest and grandest woman in the world. He held 
out his hands to her in warmest greeting; but her face grew 
white as death, and all sound of words died on her lips. 

“ I have startled you,"" he said; “ pray forgive me."" 

He drew a chair and made her sit down. 

‘‘ How rash I am,"" he said, looking in wonder at that 
white face. “ Say you forgive me. Miss Dunn, and are glad 
to see me."" 

“ I am much pleased* to see you,"" she said, but her impulse 
was to cry out: Oh, Leonard, I am Hilda, yotir wife. Kiss 
me, take me in your arms — I am your wife."" 

She restrained the impulse; but the look that went from 
her eyes to his was so strange it startled him. 

I am only here for a few hours,"" he said. “ I leave for 
town to-night; but if I can win an invitation from the 
duchess, and can win your help in the way I want it, I hope 
to come again. Will you find five minutes for me before I 
go to-night?"" 

And those five minutes she found for him, while the 
duchess went to dress for a drive with him. They stood on 
the lawn, close to a great laburnum tree, while he talked to 
her; she held one of the long golden tresses in her hands. 

‘‘Once,"" he said, “you played the part of a guardian 
angel to me. God bless you for that night"s action; you 
saved us from worse than death; now I want you to be my 
friend again, to talk to her, to persuade her. Miss Dunn, I 
love her very dearly and I want to marry her.’"" 


A THORK IN HER HEART. 


He saw the color die from her face and lips; she looked at 
him^with eyes that held an angel’s pity and an angel’s love. 

“ Marry her,” she repeated; “ but you can not. She is 
free — but you — ” 

She paused. 

“ But I — what?” he said. 

“ You have a wife,” she said steadily. 

“ A wife — a shadow you mean. I have no wife, my home 
is desolate, my heart is empty — no man on earth has less a 
wife than 1. ” 

Her noble beautiful face drooped sadly; then he said: 

‘‘ Miss Dunn, I have more faith in you than in any one liv- 
ing. Let me tell you my story. Hay, do not shrink from 
it; there is not one word in it which need shock you — let me 
tell you.” 

She bowed her head in shy assent, and he went on: 

“ I married a child. I can not tell you what led to our 
marriage; that is not my ^cret. I married a child whose 
very face was strange to me; to my deep and bitter shame, I 
married her because she had the money which was needful for 
me to keep up my state. She was a girl of noble mind, and 
had I been patient we might in time have been happy. She 
overheard me, one day, say to my mother that I wanted the 
money, and not the girl; the words rankled in her mind; they 
were cruel words, I admit, but I did not mean them as she 
thought.” 

“We were married and started for Paris for our honey- 
moon. Miss Dunn, my wife ran away from me on that jour- 
ney, and I have not seen her since; that is more than five 
years ago. Am I wrong in saying she is a shadow, but no 
wife? She left a letter bidding me farewell, saying she should 
be dead to me for all time; that I had the money and should 
not be troubled with her. Five years passed. During that time 
I have sought her high and low, far and wide. My mother 
believes her dead. Surely you, who are honor itself, can see 
no harm in my getting a divorce from what is but a shadowy 
tie.” 

She looked into his face. 

“ But if you knew her living and well?” she said. 

“ Even then she will never return to me,” he said. “ She 
was a romantic, warm-hearted girl; she would never care to 
see me again.” 

“ Suppose that she lives somewhere and loves you?” she 
said. 

‘ ‘ There is no possibility of it. If not dead, she is thoroughly 


A mom IN HER HEART. 


245 


alienated from mo. Why should I live always dreary, lonely, 
without wife or child, because it was her whim to leave me? 
Miss Dunn, you can not picture my home, in which no 
woman^’s fair face ever shines; you can not imagine my life — 
a life without love to bless it. Why should it be? I am no 
advocate for divorce — I do not approve of it; but in such a 
case as this it seems to me there is really no tie to break. 

‘‘ You married her,-’^ she said after a pause. 

“ Yes, I married her; but she chose herself to dissolve the 
contract that same day forever. 

“ She could not dissolve it, even though she ran away from 
you. It was no more in her power than it is in yours to dis- 
solve it.^^ 

“ Be reasonable, he said. “ Do you think that either the 
laws of God or man command me to be true to a wife who left 
me on my wedding-day, and whom I have never seen since? 
Y ou can not believe that. 

‘‘ I do believe it,^^ she said in a low voice, her face averted 
from his. 

“ You can not — no sensible person can. Think it over. 
am wrong in asking you for an immediate answer — think of it 
for me.^^ 

“ If I thought forever, she said, ‘‘ it would make no differ- 
ence. You can not marry the duchess while you have a wife 
living. 

“ But when I have gained my suit — and no judge in the land 
would refuse it — when I have gained that, I shall have no 
wife living; the law will have freed me from her.^^ 

“ The law has no power; nothing can free you but her 
death. 

“You will think differently when you have thought for 
some little time — quite differently. I will not press you now 
but I leave my cause in your hands. I shall say nothing to 
the duchess now, but so soon as I get away I shall write to 
her. I know beforehand that she will come to you for advice, 
that she will be influenced by yoii. Be my friend — I have had 
no happiness in my life hitherto; be my friend and help me.^^ 

She could not answer, for the next moment the duchess, 
looking lovely as a fairy queen, came into the room. The 
carriage was waiting — they were all going out for a drive. 
The duchess and Lord Dunhaven talked incessantly; Lady 
Hilda spoke never a word. 

Now indeed the crisis of her life was at hand; it seemed to 
her that her silence was sin. Was she to stand by and see her 
husband marry Lurline? She knew it could not be a mar- 


246 


A Thorn in her hear^. 

riage. What was she to do? Bitterly, and the depth of 
her heart, she repented of her error in leaving him. One 
thing was quite certain — harm enough had been done, there 
must be no more. 

What could she do? AVas ever fate so cruel — was ever wife 
placed so strangely before? She had but one hope, and it was 
that the duchess herself would not be willing. She had heard 
her speak very strongly against divorce. That would savo all 
trouble, if the duchess herself would refuse to consent. But 
would she? 

The earl went away that same evening, and three days after- 
ward the letter came. Duchess Lurline brought it to her. 

“ You must read this, Mamie,^' she said. ‘‘ I would not 
answer it until you had seen it. 

Ah, such a letter! To be so loved was more than life — such 
a letter! Lady Hilda^’s eyes grew dim with tears as she read 
it, and the thorn in her heart grew sharper. 

“ There can be but one answer to such a letter, Lurline, 
she said gently. 

The fair face brightened. 

“ I am glad you say so. I had decided in my own mind, 
but I thought I would see what you said.^^ 

You can not marry him while he has a wife living,^^ said 
Lady Hilda. 

“ I mistook you. I do not call that shadow a wife, and I 
shall marry him whenever he wishes,^'’ said the duchess de- 
fiantly. “ I do not like divorces, but this case differs from all 
others. Hothing will change my opinion, and I am ready to 
marry him now.^^ 


CHAPTER LVI. 

A REVELATION. • 

A LOVELY summer’s afternoon, warm, bright, and fragrant, 
the sun, the flowers, the birds, the great green trees all at 
their loveliest, and Lady Hilda has taken out her book to sit 
under the shade and read. The perplexities of her life are 
great; she seeks a refuge in a book. The world is all so fair, 
only in her own heart she finds the shadow of the bitterness of 
death. Looking at the roses, she tried to think of their lives 
in the sunshine — she tries to interest herself in the written 
pages, but her thoughts fly ever to the same thing — what was 
to be done about the marriage — how could she prevent it? 
How she prayed that the duchess herself might object, might 
refuse. 


A THOKl^ m HER HEART. 2i7 

Suddenly she saw the Duchess Lurline coming up the gar- 
den path with an open letter in her hand. 

“ You are there 'Mamie/ ^ she said. “ I have been search- 
ing for you. I want to tell you the news first. I know you 
will disapprove, but I do not care. I had a letter this morn- 
ing from Lord D unhaven, and he tells me that he has taken 
the best opinion in England, and that the lawyers are unani- 
mous in saying that he will not have the least difiiculty in get- 
ting a divorce — not the least. The only wonder, they say, is 
that he has not tried it before. He has asked me to settle a 
day for our marriage, that he may have something to look for- 
ward to. I have written my answer. I have said the twenti- 
eth of August; this is the twelfth of June; it does not give me 
much time. I tell you this, Mamie — I know you will not ap- 
prove, but I shall never change my mind — nothing will alter 
me. I shall be married on the twentieth of August and you 
will approve of what I am going to do long before then. I 
tell you that any speaking to me is quite useless. Why do 
you look so white and bewildered? What can it matter to 
you?^^ 

Lady Hilda rose from her seat, she laid her hands on Lur- 
line ’s shoulders, and looked in her face. 

“ Lurline,'’^ she sai^, you told me once that to show your 
gratitude to me you would grant me any favor I asked; I was 
to remind you of this promise : I claim it now. Give up this 
marriage, you will learn to be happy in time — give it up.^^ 

“ Why should I give it up?^^ said the duchess, in startled 
earnestness. 

‘‘ Ho blessing from Heaven can rest on it. It will be no 
true marriage, because his real wife is alive. You, so proud, 
duchess, can you stoop to take another woman ^s place while 
she lives?” 

“ That is all high-flown nonsense, Mamie; that shadow is 
no wife for him. I will be his true, loving, tender, devoted 
wife. I will make amends to him for his years of loneliness 
and pain, by my love and devotion. Ho, Mamie, you must 
ask me some other favor; this one I can not grant. I hope to 
be Lord Dunhaven'’s wife. Let us never mention the subject 
again; we shall only quarrel. My mind is quite made up.^^ 

And without another word, she. turned away with the letter 
in her hand, while Lady Hilda sat down with despair in her 
heart; it was quite useless to say more, her only hope had lain 
in the duchesses refusal, knowing her dislike to divorces; now 
that hope was ended and she stood face to face with the 
reality. 


248 


A THOEN IN HEE HEAET. 


The days and weeks were like one dream of pain to her; the 
earl came twice and they talked quite freely of their future 
before her; they discussed it, where thl^ should live, what 
place they preferred; there were no secrets. 

She had read of the extremity of human suffering; she had 
read of men^s being broken on the wheel, torn on the rack, but 
it seemed to her no one had ever suffered as she did while 
she listened to them. 

It must not be. Her temptation was to go away and leave 
them, to let them marry, and hide herself from them forever; 
but there was her conscience — she could not drown it, she 
could not deafen it. It spoke loudly and she must listen; her 
conscience told her there was but one thing, only one pain, 
and it was to make herself known. 

Think, puzzle, plan as she would, it was still the only plan, 
there was nothing for it but that. The divorce was so easy to 
obtain, the marriage would follow it, and’^how could she live 
with this double sin pn her soul. 

How she repented in the bitterness of her heart that she had 
done this, that she had ever left him. 

“ Ho one can renounce her solemn duties and obligations 
without suffering,^ ^ she said to herself. “ I have brought all 
this pain upon myself and others by refusing to bear patiently 
that which it was my duty to bear.-’^ 

How she had to endure the consequences. It would have 
been easier for her to have died than to. have taken her happi- 
ness from the fair young duchess. She was a coward at the 
bare thought of it; but then it is not so easy to die, especially 
ivhen death is the only way out of a difficulty. She suffered 
so much and so constantly that she grew thin and pale; there 
were whole nights when she never closed her e3ns in sleep, 
whole days when every minute was a torture. 

Ho one else had ever had such a fate, she said to herself; 
no one in the wide world. That she should love her husband, 
and, that he, not knowing it, should be trying to marry some 
one else! 

‘‘If it were a written romance,” she cried to herself im- 
patiently, “ no one would read it — it would seem so improb- 
able.^^ 

But alas, it was no romance, it was perfect truth. 

The duchess had given elaborate orders for her trousseau ; 
June had passed, it was the middle of July, stM Lady Hilda 
had not found courage to make her appeal. She must do it, 
she saw no possible way out of the difficulty— there was noth- 
ing but death or disclosure, She could not stand by and see 


% 


A THOKK IK HER HEART. 249 

I'prd Dunhaven marry the duchess, while she, his wife, was 
still living — that she could not do. The only alternative was 
to tell the duchess all, and throw herself on her mercy — tell 
her the truth and then she woidd see herself that the marriage 
was quite impossible. 

It was the end of July when a letter from the earl an- 
nounced his coming. 

‘‘ I hope to be with you to-morrow, he wrote, ‘‘ although 
my movements are very uncertain. I am going to Haven- 
dale; I think of asking you to spend our honey-moon there. 

The duchess read that sentence to Lady Hilda, who an- 
swered never a word; she was stunned by the near approach 
of the tragedy. Later on in the day — it was afternoon, and 
she was in the small drawing-room that opened into a beauti- 
ful green lawn; it was a favorite room of Lady Hilda^s — 
bright, cheerful, and picturesque. She had gone there to 
think; her brain was bewildered, her mind not clear. She 
wanted to collect her thoughts, for on that day she must tell 
her before he came. While she sat there the door opened, 
and the duchess entered, a happy smile on her bright face. 
She took her favorite position, a seat at Lady Hilda^s feet. 

“ Do you know, Mamie, she said, ‘‘ that I should not be 
in the least degree surprised if Leonard came to-da}^ he said 
his movements were uncertain. You look bewildered. 

I am bewildered, said the unhappy wife. “ God help 
me to do right 

It would have been easier to have died a hundred times over 
than to have revealed her long-treasured secret; she would not 
have revealed it for anything but to save sin. 

“ He likes to surprise me,^^ said Duchess Lurline, ‘‘ and I 
want to talk to you about my marriage. You must interest 
yourself, you must listen. Although I am just twenty, I can 
not dress like a bride; I suppose there can be no pretty veil 
and wreath for me. I must have a bonnet; how old I shall 
feel in a bonnet 

Then she looked up in utter wonder, for Lady Hilda had 
fallen on her knees at her feet, with passionate tears and pas- 
sionate cries. 

I can not bear it!^^ she cried. “ Oh, my God, help me to 
tell her! I can not bear it!^^ 

The duchess grew very pale and grave. 

“ What is it?^^ she cried, “ you frighten me. Has anything 
happened to— him? 

Such passionate cries, such bitter tears, such a white, woful 
face! 


250 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


“ Do not frighten me/’ said the duchess; “ tell me what is 
wrong. Have I grieved you by speaking of my marriage?” 

Then the white arms clung around her, and a hot rain of 
tears fell on her. 

“ My darling, do not speak, do not think of your marriage; 
it can never be. Let me tell you, and yet, oh, my God! it 
would be easier to die. ” 

“ You have something to tell me,” said the young girl, 
calmly; “ something that will prevent my marriage, you 
think.” 

Her voice trembled as she uttered the words. 

“ Yes, it will prevent your marriage. Oh, my darling, can 
you not think? Can you not guess what it is?” 

“No; I have no thought — tell me. ” 

They looked each other in the face, those two women, be- 
tween whom there was so deadly a struggle. Then the white 
arms clasped her more tightly, and ^ the white face drooped 
against her. 

“ Lurline, if I cohld die, I w^ould; if I dare kill myself, I 
should not tell you. I would rather have suffered any death 
than have lived to tell you this. I must tell you. Lord Dun- 
haven spoke to you of his wife — did he not?” 

“ Thati shadow, ” said the duchess, scornfully. “What is 
she to you, that you should always think of her?” 

“ Can you not guess, Lurline?” 

“ No, I can not guess. What is she to you, this girl? Why 
do you speak of her? Do you know anything of her? Tell 
me. You must see that suspense tortures me. Do you know 
her?” 

“ Yes, I know her, Lurline. Ah, great Heaven, how well! 
He told you who she was — Lady Hilda Dunhaven, the old 
earl’s daughter. Oh, Lurline darling, do not hate me, do not 
turn from me. I am his wife!” 

There was one minute of dead silence; then the duchess, all 
white and trembling, unclasped the arms from her neck and 
flung them from her. She sunk into a chair that stood near 
her. 

“You! You traitor!” she said. “You traitor! I will 
not believe it! You are not his wife!” 

Nothing but passionate tears answered her — nothing but 
passionate cries. 

“ You traitor!” she repeated. “ You have lived under my 
roof, smiled in my face, called yourself my friend, knowing this! 
But I do not believe it! I will not believe it — it is all 
false!” 


A THOBlf IIH HEU HEART. 


251 


CHAPTER LVIL 

THE WELCOME HOME. 

‘‘ Listen to me, Lurline; you have never found me false, 
treacherous, or untrue. Why should I have told you my se- 
cret? When I went to live with j^ou in that gloomy northern 
abbey, there was no thought then of your ever coming to Lon- 
don; how should I know that you would meet my husband, or 
that he would love you? Be just; I have suffered enough, for 
I love him.^^ 

“ Then why did you leave him?^^ asked the duchess. 

‘‘ Let me tell you my stoiy,^"* said Lady Hilda; “ then you 
will understand.'’’ 

Kneeling at the young girl’s feet, she told her all, every de- 
tail, what she }iad suffered through her love, her pain, her 
struggle — the most pitiful story that woman ever had to tell. 
When she had finished she looked into Lurline ’s face. 

“ Are you angry with me now?’’ she said. ‘‘ I never meant 
to make myself known; I meant to keep my word in all hon- 
esty, and be dead to him for all time. The only thing that 
could have forced my secret from me was the fear and horror 
of sin. I could not see you marry him, because I knew there 
could be no such marriage while I lived. ” 

‘‘ You should have told me; it was so cruel, it is so cruel, 
for I love him too. I love him with all my .heart, and now I 
have lost him — it was cruel.” 

She wrung her hands with a cry of despair that Lady Hilda 
never forgot. Then they both started and stood erect, for 
Leonard, Lord Dunhaven, had anticipated his journey by a 
day; he had entered the room, and stood there, silent and be- 
wildered. 

Lurline, darling, what is it?” he cried. 

He opened his arms, and she hid her face on his breast. 

“ What is it, my darling?” he repeated. 

Then she stood up, and, pointing to Lady Hilda, cried: 

“ Leonard, she says that she 'is your wife, Hilda Dunhaven, 
and that you can never marry me; you must choose between 
us; here is the woman who deserted you, and here the woman 
who loves you; choose between us. ” 

“ My darling,” he cried, clasping her to his arms, “ I love 
you, 1 choose you. What absurd story is this?” 


262 


A THOEN IN HEE HEAET. 


“ You should have known her, Leonard, should you not, if 
she were really your wife?^^ 

But Lady Hilda, when she heard his words, turned away 
and hid her face in her hands. 

“ My wife,-’^ he repeated, in a bewildered tone. “ My Lur- 
line, you startled and frightened me so I hardly understand — 
my wife?^^ 

“Yes, this lady who has lived with me as my companion 
says that she is Lady Hilda Hunhaven, your wife.^^ 

“ Am I going mad, or are you, Lurline? and is the whole 
world mad? My wife?^^ 

He went up to her, the duchess watching him with jealous 
eyes; he took her hands from her face, and looked earnestly 
in it. 

“ My wife?^^ he said again. “ Hilda, are you indeed my 
wife?^^ 

She raised her eyes to him. 

“ Yes/^ she said, sadly. “ I am indeed your most unhappy 
wife, Hilda Dunhaven.^’ 

He stood rooted to the ground with amazement. 

“ My wife, and I have known and seen you all this time, 
and yet did not recognize you?^^ 

“ It was not to be wondered at, since you had hardly seen 
my face, and you did not love mei^^ 

“ My wife! I have been searching through the land, and 
you were here all the time — hidden here. 

“lam sorry, she said; and the sadness in her voice was so 
great that it brought tears to his eyes. “ I am very sorry, 
she said, “ I wish I could have died. Death would have been 
the most welcome friend to hold out his hand -to me, but I can 
not die, and I dared not stand by in silence while this wrong 
was done. My life has been all pain, but this — of bringing 
myself back to you, of telling you that I live, of standing be- 
tween you and your marriage — this is the keenest pain of all.^^ 

So young, so beautiful, so despairing! the pathos of it 
struck him keenly. She looked at him again with the same 
helpless sadness. 

“ If I could place Lurline ^s hand in yours, and bid you be 
happy, I would so gladly lay down my miserable life. But, 
alas, I am strong, and far from death. 

“ My dear Hilda,"" said Lord Dunhaven, “ I am so utterly 
lost and confused, I am so bewildered, I can not speak. I came 

here to arrange for my marriage with Lurline, and I find 

my wife. No wonder that I am confused, but, believe me, I 


A THORIT IN HER HEART. 


253 


am happy and well pleased to find you living and well; I have 
spent many anxious hours over you.^^ 

Then the three, so strangely brought together, stood in si- 
lent pain. 

Lord D unhaven looked from one to the other.-? -these two 
beautiful women who both loved him, one.f»of Vhom he loved; 
it was impossible to tell which' was'Mcfe't beautiful — the queen- 
ly, royal woman whose exquisite face wa^ 'bowed with shame, 
or the fair young duchess whose eyes wqf'e full of love. 

“May God bless us all he said. There was never so 
strange a fate. I — I am lost, bewildered. Oh, Hilda, this all 
seems wrong. Lurline, I know not what to say.^^ 

A new spirit came over the duchess, a new light shone on 
her beautiful face, something of the grand spirit of a grand 
race stirred in her heart. 

“ One of us must sulfer,^^ she said; “ it must be 1. You, 
* whom God joined together, no man shall put asunder. Leon- 
ard, Lady Hilda is your wife; I can be nothing-, to you; she is 
true to you. Even if you would be divorced from her, you can 
not; there is no ground for it; neither would I have it so. You 
will learn to love her and to forget me. 

“ I shall never forget you, Lurline, he cried, in a passion 
of despair. 

“You must forget me now. Try to love your wife, Leon- 
ard; she is beautiful and good; she loves you. I will leave 
you now. Do not ask for me again. I am going to my own 
room to say my prayers, to ask God to help me to forget you; 
and He will, I know He will. 

She went up to him, all the bravery and nobility of her race 
shining in her eyes. 

“ We have loved each other very much, Leonard," she 
said, gently; “ but you see, dear, it was not to be. Kiss me 
before I go, just as you should kiss me if you saw me lying 
dead.^^ 

He took her in his arm's and the tears that fell from his eyes 
on her face were no disgrace to his manhood; he loved her so 
well. He laid his lips on hers for one half minute. 

“ Good-bye, my love,"’^ he said, “ good-bye. 

Her arms clung round him, her lips clung to his; then she 
repeated the words: 

“ Good-bye, my love, good-bye." 

The next moment she had passed from his sight, and the 
name of Lurline, Duchess of Nairn, had become to him a 
memory and a dream. 

His wife went up to him^ pale, grave, collected, 


254 


A THOKN IN HER HEART. 


“ I am very sorry/^ she said; “ no words can tell you how 
sorry. You love her, and she loves you. I am the curse of 
yoilr life to come between you. 

He looked at her so royally beautiful, so graceful, so queen- 
like, and ''lie thought to himself how other men would value 
that beauty, how'^Stheys would Irvye and worsliip her; he re- 
membered, too, how she had loved him. 

“ Hilda, he sakh gently, “ I have given you no warm 
words of welcome, but I am glad to see you. I have repented 
sincerely of my cruel words, and I have thought so much of 
you!^^ 

“ That did not prevent you from falling in love with some 
one else,^^ she said, with gentle reproach. 

“ No, it did not. It has been a terrible mistake, all of it, 
Hilda. But there must be no more mystery; I must tell Lady 
Darel at once.-’^ 

She looked like the very image of despair. 

“ Do you really mean it — must Lady Dare! know?^' 

“ Yes, you must take your place in the world once more. 
The wisest thing will be for you to go at once to my mother^ s 
house, and ask her to go with you to Havendale. 1 prefer that 
you should go to Havendale, it is quite as much your home as 
^ niine.'^^ 

“ And your^^ she said, softly, looking at him with tender, 
wistful eyes. 

“ I must go where I can cure myself, he said, “ where I 
can bear my most bitter smart alone; afterward I shall come 
to you; until then, Hilda, good-bye.’’^ 

He bent down and kissed her forehead, gently, gravely, not 
with the love he had shown the duchess. 

‘‘Time does much,^^ he said; “it may bring us together 
again; Hilda, we will trust to it. 

Before sunset that evening, there was no one left at Holm- 
dale but the duchess, and she kept her room. Words are all 
weak to express Lady Dareks surprise when she saw her song’s 
wife. Her welcome was a kindly one. 

“ You have grown tall, beautiful, graceful, she said. 
“ You gave promise of a magnificent womanhood and it is 
fulfilled.'^ 

She kissed her. 

I hope we shall be good friends, my dear; you suffered for 
us; but, believe me, my son and I have suffered over you; you 
are welcome home. 

No one expressed any surprise that the young Countess of 
Dunhaven had returned. It was understood that she had re- 


A THORK m HER HEART. 255 

mained abroad for her health; but now that she was well and 
strong, she had returned. 

She went to Havendale with Lady Darel, and in a short 
time was quite at home there. She had a great love for this 
grand old place, where her mother’s brief married life had 
been spent, and where she died. It was the first house that 
had ever been a home to her. 

She was horrified one day to read of the death of the beauti- 
ful Lady Danchild, of Hilde Manor House, who was drowned 
while bathing. She laid the paper down and prayed : 

“Why shall I hide from Thy iudgments, oh God, or de-* 
ceive Thee?” 


• CHAPTER LVIII. 

% 

A GOOD woman’s REWARD. 

The Countess of Dunhaven had spent a year at Havendale, 
and during that year she had made herself much beloved. 
Lady Darel remained with her; they were the best of friends. 
Lady Hilda yielded, to her, tended her, nursed her when she 
was sick, amused her when she was well, until her ladyship 
had grown so fond of her son’s wife that she could not bear to 
be parted from her. 

“How mistaken I was over you, Hilda!” she said; “ I can 
never forgive myself. ” 

At last her gentle wisdom, her patience, her submission 
were rewarded. The day came — a bright June day — when 
Leonard, Earl of Dunhaven, once more sought his home. He 
had schooled himself, he had made the best use of his life’s 
discipline; he longed to be at home, and to interest himself in 
his various duties once more. 

He had thought a great deal about his wife — perhaps one 
great charm lay in the words, “ his wife.” How well she 
had . loved him, how generous she had been in giving up her 
fortune that he might enjoy it, how self-sacrificing she had 
been in leaving him, how through all those years she had loved 
him, how she must have suffered when she saw his love given 
to another! 

She was beautiful — more queenly than the duchess; she 
was of a higher and nobler nature, yet he had loved the 
duchess well. She was not heart-broken; he had heard of her 
in Paris; it was said that a great Russian prince was in love 
with her, and would most probably reward her. He had heard 


^56 


A THORN IN HER HEART. 


that rumor; and though at first it had pained him, he had 
come to think that it was, after all, the best thing. 

On this bright June day he went to Havendale, to seek a 
reconciliation with his wife. She had gone out. Lady Oarel 
said, to her favorite spot, the great willow down by the lake; 
she liked to sit there and watch the clear water. He went 
after her, and the first intimation that Lady Hilda had of his 
coming was that he was by her side. 

She looked beautiful as a dream, in a long dress of soft, 
creamy silk, with blush-roses in her hair and on her breast. 
She uttered no cry when she saw him; his coming there was 
but the fulfillment of a dream. 

“ Hilda, he said, taking both her hands in his, “ my dear 
wife, I have come to seek a reconciliation with you. Will you 
forgive me all the pain and sorrow I caused your^^ 

It was the hour she had foreseen in her dreams. 

“ Will you let me, by the devotion of my whole life, atone 
to you for the misery of these past years? I bring you a true, 
honorable love, dear; !• bring you a true heart. Will you try 
me, Hilda? I have learned to love you at last 

Words sweeter in her ears than song of birds, words , for 
which she had prayed and longed — the time had come at last, 
after all her suffering and all her pain. 

Lor answer she raised her white arms and laid them on his 
neck; she raised her face and kissed his lips. 

“ Heaven has been very good to me,’^ she said; “lam 
quite content. 

They went to Italy for their honey-moon; while they were 
there, there came the wedding-cards of the Duchess of Nairn, 
who, after much persuasion, had married the Russian prince. 

Hilda was happy all the rest of her life; for now, in very 
truth, indeed, the thorn was taken from her heart. 


THE END. 


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Blatherwick 10 

549 Dudley Carleon ; or. The Broth- 
er’s Secret, and George Caul- 
field’s Journey. ByMissM. E. 

Braddon 10 

855 Dynamiter, The. By Robert 
Louis Stevenson and Fanny 
Van de Grift Stevenson 20 


465 Earl’s Atonement, The. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

8 East Lynne. Mrs. Henry Wood 20 
827 Effie Ogilvie. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 
960 Elizabeth’s Fortune. By Bertha 

Thomas 20 

685 England under Gladstone. 18^) 
—1885. By Justin H. McCar- 
thy, M.P 20 

521 Entangled. By E. Fairfax 20 

Byrrne 

625 Erema; or. My Father’s Sin. 

By R. D. Blackmore 20 


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118 Eric Dering. “The Duchess” 10 
96 Erling the Bold, By R. M, Bal- 

lantyne 10 

90 Ernest Maltravers. By Sir E.Bul- 

wer Ly tton 20 

786 Ethel Mildmay’s Follies. By 
author of “ Petite’s Romance ” 20 
162 Eugene Aram. By Sir E. Bulwer 

Lytton 20 

764 Evil Genius, The. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

.470 Evelyn’s Folly. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 20 

62 Executor, The. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander 20 

13 Eyre’s Acquittal. By Helen B. 
Mathers 10 


319 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 
Fables. By R. E. Francillon. 10 
877 Facing the Footlights. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 20 

538 Fair Country Maid, A. By E. 

Fairfax Byrrne 20 

905 Fair-Haired Alda, The. By Flor- 
ence Marry at 20 

261 Fair Maid, A. By F. W. Robin- 
son 20 

417 Fair Maid of Perth, The; or, 

St. Valentine’s Day. By Sir 

Walter Scott 20 

626 Fair Mystery, A. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 20 

727 Pair Women. BJ^ lilrs, Forrester 20 
.30 Faith and Unfaith. By “ The 

Duchess” ^ . . 20 

819 Fallen Idol, A. By F. Anstey. . . 20 
2^ False Vow, The; or, Hilda. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

928 False Vow„The; or, Hilda, By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “ Dora Thorne,” (Large 

type edition)... 20 

543 Family Affair, A. By Hugh 
Conway, author of “ Called 

Back ” . . 20 

338 Family Difficulty, The. By Sa- 
rah Doudney •. 10 

690 Far From the Madding Crowd. 

By Thomas Hardy 20 

798 Fashion of this World, The, By 

Helen B. Mathers 10 

680 Fast and Loose, By Arthur 

Griffiths 20 

246 Fatal Dower, A. By the Author 
of “ His Wedded Wife ” .... 20 
299 Fatal Lilies, The. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 10 

548 Fatal 'Marriage, A, and The 
Shadow in the Corner. By 

Miss M. E. Braddon 10 

698 Felix Holt, the Radical. By 

(ieorge Eliot 20 i 


542 Fenton’s Quest. By Miss M. E, 

Braddon 20 

7 File No. 113. By Emile Gabo- 

riau 20 

575 Finger of Fate, The. By Cap- 
tain Mayne Reid 20 

95 Fire Brigade, The, By R. M. 

Ballant 3 'ne 10 

674 First Person Singular. By Da- 
vid Christie Murray 20 

199 Fisher Village, The. By Anne 

579 Flower of Doom, The, and 10 
Other Stories. By M. Betham- 


Edwards 10 

745 For Another’s Sin ; or, A Strug- 
gle for Love. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 20 

156 “Fora Dream’s Sake.” By Mrs. 

Herbert Martin 20 

173 Foreigners, The. By Eleanor C. 

Price 20 

197 For Her Dear Sake. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

150 For Himself Alone, By T. W. 

Speight 10 

278 For Life and Love. By Alison . 10 
608 For Lilias. By Rosa Nouchette 

Carey 20 

712 For Maimie’s Sake, By Grant 

Allen 20 

586 “ For Percival.” By Margaret 

Veley 20 

171 Fortune’s Wheel. By “ The 

Duchess ” 10 

468 Fortunes, Good and Bad, of a 
Sewing-Girl, The. By Char- 
lotte M. Stanley 10 

216 Foul Play. By Charles Reade. 20 
438 Found Out. By Helen B. 
Mathers 10 


333 Frank Fairlegh; or. Scenes 
From the Life of a Private 
Pupil. By Frank E. Smedley 20 
805 Freres, The. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander. 1st half 20 

805 Freres, The. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander. 2d half 20 

226 Friendship. By “Ouida” 20 

288 From Gloom to Sunlight; or 
From Out the Gloom. By 

Charlotte M,- Braeme 10 

956 From Gloom to Sunlight; or. 
From Out the Gloom. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme. (Large 

type edition) 20 

732 From Olympus to Hades. By 

Mrs. Forrester 20 

288 From Out the Gloom ; or. From 
Gloom to Sunlight, By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

955 From Out the Gloom; or. From 
Gloom to Sunlight. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme. (Large type 

edition) 20 

348 From Post to Finish. A Racing 
Romance. By Hawley Smart 20 


G 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


285 Gambler’s Wife, The 20 

971 Garrison Gossip: Gathered in 

Blankhamptou. John Strange 

Winter 20 

772 Gascoyne, ■ the Sanclal-Wood 
Trader. By K. M. Ballautyne 20 
549 George Caulfield’s Journey. 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 10 

365 George Christy; or. The Fort- 
unes of a Minstrel. By Tony 

Pastor 20 

331 Gerald. By Eleanor C. Price . . 20 
208 Ghost of Charlotte Cray, The, 
and Other Stories. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 10 

613 Ghost’s Touch, The. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

225 Giant’s Robe, The. By F. Anstey 20 
300 Gilded Sin, A, and A Bridge of 
Lov'e. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 10 

508 Girl at the Gate, The. By 

Wilkie Collins 10 

954 Girl’s Heart, A. By the author 

of “ Nobody’s Darling ” 20 

867 Girls of Feversham, The. By 

Florence Marryat 20 

644 Girton Girl, A. By Mrs. Annie 

Edwards 20 

140 Glorious Fortune, A. By Wal- 
ter Besant — 10 

647 Goblin Gold. By May Crom- 

melin 10 

450 Godfrey Helstone. By Georgi- 
ana M. Craik 20 

972 Gold Elsie. By E. Marlitt 20 

911 Golden Bells: A Peal in Seven 

Changes. By R. E. Francillon 20 
153 Golden Calf, The. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

306 Golden Dawn, A. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

656 Golden Flood, The. By R. E. 

Francillon and Wm. Senior. . 10 
172 “ Golden Girls.” By Alan Muir 20 
292 Golden Heart, A. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

916 Golden Hope, The. By W. Clark 

Russell 20 

667 Golden Lion of Granpere, The. 

By Anthony Trollope 20 

758 “Good-bye, Sweetheart!” By 

Rhoda Broughton 20 

356 Good Hater, A. By Frederick 

Boyle 20 

801 Good-Natured Man, The. By 

Oliver Goldsmith 10 

710 Greatest Heiress in England, 

The. By Mrs. Oliphant. 20 

439 Great Expectations. By Charles 

Dickens 20 

135 Great Heiress, A : A Fortune in 
Seven Checks. By R. E. Fran- 
cillon 10 

244 Great Mistake, A. By the author 
of “Cherry” 20 


Great Treason, A. By Mary 

Hoppus. First half 20 

Great Treason, A. By Mary 

Hoppus. Second half 20 

Great Voyages and Great Navi- 
gators. Jules Verne. 1st half 20 
Great Voyages and Great Navi- 
gators. Jules Verne. 2d half 20 
Green Pastures and Piccadilly. 


By Wm. Black 20 

Griffith Gaunt; or. Jealousy. 

By Charles Reade 20 

Griselda. By the author of “ A 

Woman’s Love-Story” 20 

Guiding Star, A ; or,lLady Dam- 
er’s Secret. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 20 

Guilty River, The. By Wilkie 
Collins 10 

Haco the Dreamer. By William 

Sime 10 

Half-Way. An Anglo-French 

Romance 20 

Handy Andy. By Samuel Lover 20 
Hard Times. By Chas. Dickens 10 
Harry Heathcoteof Gangoil. By 

Anthony Trollope 10 

Harry Lorrequer. By Charles 

Lever 20 

Harry Muir. By Mrs. Oli pliant 20 
Harvest of Wild Oats, A. By 

Florence Marryat 20 

Haunted Chamber, The. By 

“ The Duchess ” 10 

Haunted Life. A; or. Her Terri- 
ble Sin. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 20 

Haunted Man, The. By Charles 

Dickens 10 

Hazel Kirke. By Marie Walsh 20 


Solomon’s Wives ;” and A 
Siege Baby and Childhood’s 
Memories, t>y J. S. Winter. , . 20 
Headsman, The; or. The Ab- 
baye des Vignerons. By J. 

Feuimore Cooper 20 

Head Station, The. By Mrs. 

Campbell-Praed 20 

Healey. By Jessie Fothergill. 20 
Heart and Science. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

Heart of Jane Warner, The. By 

Florence Marryat 20 

Heart of Mid-Lothian, The, By 

Sir Walter Scott 20 

Hearts : Queen, Knave, and 
Deuce. By David Christie 

Murray 20 

Heiress of Hilldrop, The; or. 


The Romance of a ‘Young 
Girl. By Otiarlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 20 
Heir of the Ages, llie. By James 
Payn 20 


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751 

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385 

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444 

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695 

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823 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


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689 Heir Presumptive, The. By 

Florence Marryat 20 

513 Helen Whitney’s Wedding, and 
Other Tales. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood 10 

535 Henrietta’s Wish; or, Domi- 
neering. By Charlotte M. 

Yonge 10 

806 Her Dearest Foe. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander. First half 20 

806 Her Dearest Foe. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander. Second half 20 

160 Her Gentle Deeds. By Sarah 

Tytler 10 

814 Heritage of Langdale, The. By 

Mrs. Alexander 20 

956 Her Johnnie. By Violet Whyte 20 
860 Her Lord and Master. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 20 

297 Her MaiTiage Vow; or, Hilary’s 
Folly. Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 10 
953 Her Marriage Vow; oi’, Hilary’s 
Folly. Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Thorne.” 

(Large type edition) 20 

576 Her Martyrdom. By Charlotte 
M. Brgeme, author of ” Dora 

Thorne”.. 20 

19 Her Mother’s Sin. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of ” Dora 

Thorne” 10 

824 Her Own Doing. W. E. Norris 10 

958 Her Terrible Sia; or, A Haunted 
Life. By Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of ” Dora Thorne ”... 20 
196 Hidden Perils. Mary Cecil Hay 20 

518 Hidden Sin, Thef A Novel 20 

933 Hidden Terror, A. By Mary 

Albert 20 

297 Hilary’s Folly; or. Her Mar- 
riage Vow. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne” 10 

953 Hilary’s Folly; or, Her Mar- 
riage Vow. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme. (Large type edition) 20 
^ Hilda; or. The False Vow. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, auUior 

of ” Dora Thorne ”. i 10 

928 Hilda; or. The False Vow. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme. (Large 

type edition) 20 

658 History of a V/eek, The. By 

lilrs. L. B. Walford..;. 10 

165 History of Henry Esmond, The. 

By William M. Thackeray. . . 20 
461 His Wedded Wife. By author 

of ” A Fatal Dower ” 20 

904 Holy Rose, The. By Walter Be- 
sant 10 

378 Homeward Bound; or. The 

Chase. By J. F. Cooper — 80 

379 Home as Found. (Sequel to 

“ Homeward Bound.”) ByJ. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

800 Hopes and Fears; or. Scenes 
from the Life of a Spinster. 
Charlotte M. Yonge. 1st half 20 


800 Hopes and Fears; or. Scenes 
from the Life of a Spinster. 
Charlotte M. Yonge. 2d half 20 
552 Hostages to Fortune. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

600 Houp-La. By John Strange 

Winter. (Illustrated) 10 

703 House Divided Against Itself, 

A. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

248 House on the Marsh, The. By 

F. Warden 10 

351 House on the Moor, The. By 

Mrs. Oliphant 20 

874 House Party, A. By ” Ouida ”. 10 
481 House That Jack Built, The. 

By Alison 10 

754 How to be Happy Though Mar- 
ried. By a Graduate in the 

Universits'^ of Matrimony 20 

748 HuiTish: A Study. By the 

Hon. Emily Lawless 20 

198 Husband’s Story, A 10 


389 Ichabod. A Portrait. By Bertha 

Thomas 10 

188 Idonea. By Anne Beale 20 

807 If Love Be Love. D. Cecil Gibbs 20 
715 I Have Lived and Loved. By 

Mrs. Forrester 20 

762 Impressions of Theophrastus 
Such. By George Eliot 10 

303 Ingledew House. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

796 In a Grass Country. By Mrs. 

H. Lovett Cameron 20 

304 In Cupid’s Net. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 10 

404 In Durance Vile, and Other 
Stories. By “ The Duchess ” 10 
324 In Luck at Last. By Walter 

Besant 10 

672 In Maremma. By ” Ouida.” 1st 

half 20 

672 In Maremma. By “ Ouida.” 2d 

half 20 

604 Innocent: A Tale of Modern 
Life. By Mrs. Oliphant. First 

Half 20 

604 Innocent: A Tale of Modern 
Life. By Mrs. Oliphant. Sec- 
ond Half 20 

577 In Peril and Privation. By 

James Payn 10 

638 In Quarters with the 25th (The 
Black Horse) Dragoons. By 

J. 6. Winter 10 

759 In Shallow Waters. By Annie 

Armitt 20 

39 In Silk Attire. By William Black 20 
738 In the Golden Days. By Edna 

Lyall 20 

682 In the Middle Watch. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

452 In the West Couctrie. By May 
Croramelin 20 


8 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY — Pocket Edition. 


883 Introduced to Society. By Ham- 
ilton Aid6 

^2 lone Stewart. By Mrs. E. Lynn 

233 “ I Say No or, The Love-Let- 
ter Answered. By Wilkie Col- 
lins 

235 “It is Never Too Late to Mend.” 

By Charles Reade 

28 Ivanhoe. By Sir Walter Scott. 


534 Jack. By Alphonse Daudet — 
752 Jackanapes, and Other Stories. 

By Juliana Horatio Ewing. . . 
416 Jack Tier ; or. The Florida Reef. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 

743 Jack’s Courtship. By W. Clark 

Russell. 1st half 

743 Jack’s Courtship. Bj^ W. Clark 

Russell. 2d half 

519 James Gordon’s Wife, A Novel 
15 Jane Eyre. Bj^ Charlotte Bront6 
.""728 Janet’s Repentance. By George 

Eliot 

142 Jenifer. By Annie Thomas — 
941 Jess. By H. Rider Haggard. . . 
841 Jet: Her Face or Her Fortune? 

By Mrs. Annie Edwards 

767 Joan. By Rhoda Broughton. . 
914 Joan Wentworth. By Katha- 
rine S. Macquoid 

357 John. By Mrs. Oliphant 

203 John Bull and His Island. By 

MaxO’Rell 

289 John Bull’s Neighbor in Her 
True Light. By a “Brutal 

Saxon” 

. 11 John Halifax, Gentleman. By 

Miss Mulock 

209 John Holdsworth, Chief Mate. 

By W. Clark Russell 

694 John Maidment. By Julian 

Sturgis 

570 John Marchmont’s Legacy. By 

Miss M. E. Braddon 

488 Joshua Haggard’s Daughter. 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 

619 Joy ; or, The Light of Cold- 
Home Ford. By May Crom- 

melin 

266 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love 
Affairs and Other Advent- 
ures. By William Black 

832 Judith Wynne.* By author of 

“ Lady Lovelace ” 

80 June. By Mrs. Forrester 

561 Just As I Am ; or, A Living Lie. 
By Miss M. E. Braddon ... 


832 Kidnapped. By Robert Louis 

Stevenson 

857 Kildee; or. The Sphinx of the 
Red House. By Mary E. 

Bryan. First half 

857 Kildee; or. The Sphinx of the 
Red House. By Mary E. 

Bryan. Second half 


126 Kilraeny. By William Black.. 20 
808 King Arthur. Not a Love Story. 

By Miss Midock 20 

753 King Solomon’s Mines. By H. 

Rider Haggard 20 

970 King Solomon’s Wives; or. The 
Phantom Mines. By H^’der 

Ragged. (Illustrated) 20 

435 Klytia: A Story of Heidelberg 

Castle. By George Taylor... 20 

35 Lady Audley’s Secret. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

733 Lady Branksmere. By “ The 

Ducliess” 20 

516 Lady Castlemaine’s Divorce; or. 
Put Asunder. Bj' Chailotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne”. 20 

219 Lady Clare ; or. The Master of 
the Forges. From the French 

of .Georges Ohnet 10 

468 Lady Darner’s Secret: or, A 
.V Guiding Star. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “Dora 


X IlUl IJo 

931 Lady Diana’s Pride. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

268 Lady Gay’s Pride ; or, The Mi- 

ser’s Treasure. By Mrs. Alex. 

McVeigh Miller. 20 

305 Lady Gwendoline’s Dream. By ' 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ”. . 10 

506 Lady Lovelace. By the author 

of “Judith Wynne” 20 

155 Lady Muriel’s Secret. By Jean 

Middlemas 20 

161 Lady of Lyons, The. Founded 
on the Plaj' of that title by 

Lord Lytton '. 10 

497 Lady’s Mile, The. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

875 Lady Valw'orth’s Diamonds. By 

“The Duchess ” 20 

652 Lady With the Rubies, The. By 
E. Marlitt 20 

269 Lancaster’s Choice. By Mrs. 

Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 

599 Lancelot W’^ard, M.P. By George 

Temple 10 

32 Land Leaguers, The. By An- 
thony Trollope 20 

684 Last Days at Apswich 10 

40 Last Days of Pompeii, The. By 
Bulwer Lytton 20 


130 Last of the Barons, The, By Sir 
E. Bulw'er Lytton. 1st half.. 20 
130 Last of the Barons, The. By Sir 
E. Bulwer Lytton. 2d half.. 20 
60 Last of the Mohicans, The. By 

J. Fenim,ore Cooper 20 

921 Late Miss Hollingford, The. 

By Rosa Mulholland 10 

267 Laurel Vane; or. The Girls’ 
Conspiracy. By Mrs. Alex. 
McVeigh Miller 20 


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THE SEASIDE LIBRARY-Pocket Edition. 


9 


455 Lazanis in London. By F. W. 

Robinson 20 

839 Leah : A Woman of Fashion. 

By Mrs. Annie Edwards 20 

386 Led Astray ; or, “ La Petite 
Comtesse.” Octave Feuillet. 10 
353 Legrend of Montrose, A. By Sir 

Walter Scott 20 

164 LeiIa;or, The Siege of Grenada. 

By Buhver Lytton 10 

885 Les Misdrables. Victor Hugo. 

Parti 20 

885 Les Misdrables. Victor Hugo. 

Part II 20 

885 Les Misdrables. Victor Hugo. 
Part HI 20 


408 Lester’s Secret. By Mary Cecil 

Hay 20 

562 Lewis Arundel; or, The Rail- 
road of Life. By Frank E. 

Smedley 20 

437 Life and Adventures of Martin 
Chuzzlewit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. First half 20 

437 Life and Adventures of Martin 
Chuzzlewit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. Secorid half 20 

774 Life and Travels of Mungo 

PHtPIc Th0 10 

698 Life’s Atonement, A. By David 

Christie Murray 20 

617 Like Dian’s Kiss. By “ Rita ”. 20 
807 Like no Other Love. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

402 Lilliesleaf ; or. Passages in the 
Life of Mrs. ^'Margaret Mait- 
land of Sunnyside. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

397 Lionel Lincoln ; or, The Leaguer 
of Boston. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

94 Little Dorrit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. First half 20 

94 Little Dorrit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. Second half 20 

279 Little Goldie : A Stor}^ of Wom- 
an’s Love. By Mrs. Sumner 

Hayden... 20 

109 Little Loo. By W. Clark Russell 20 
179 Little Make-Believe. By B. L. 

Farjeou 10 

45 Little Pilgrim, A. By Mrs. Oli- 
phant 10 

272 Little Savage, The. By Captain 

Marryat 10 

111 Little School-master Mark, The. 

By J. H. Shorthouse 10 

899 Little Stepson, A. By Florence 

Marryat 10 

878 Little Tu’penny. By S. Baring- 

Gould 10 

804 Living or Dead. By Hugh Con- 
way, author of “Called Back ” 20 
919 Locksley Hall Sixty Years Af- 
ter, etc. By Alfred, Lord 

Tennyson, P.L., D.C.L 10 

797 Look Before You Leap. By 
Mrs. Alexander 20 


92 Lord Lynne’s Choice. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 


“Dora Thorne” 10 

749 Lord Vanecourt’s Daughter. By 

Mabel Collins 20 

67 Lorna Doone. By R. D. Black- 

more. First half 20 

67 Lorna Doone. By R. D. Black- 

more. Second half 20 

473 Lost Son, A. By Mary Linskill. 10« 
354 Lottery of Life, The. A Story 
of New York -Twenty Years 
Ago. By John Brougham .. 20 
453 Lottery Ticket, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey 20 

479 Louisa. By Katharine S. Mac- 

quoid 20 

742 Love and Life. By Charlotte 

M. Yonge 20 

273 Love and Mirage; or. The Wait- 
ing on an Island. By M. 
Betham -Ed wards 10 


232 Love and Money; or, A Peril- 
ous Secret. By Chas. Reade. 10 
146 Love Finds the Way, and Other 
Stories. By Walter Besant 

and James Rice 10 

306 Love for a Day. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

313 Lover’s Creed, The. By Mrs. 

Cashel-Hoey 20 

893 Love’s Conflict. By Florence 

Mai’ryat. First half 20 

893 Love’s Conflict. By Florence 

Marryat. Second half 20 

573 Love’s Harvest. “B. L. Far jeon 20 
949 Love’s Hidden Dbpths; or, 
Claribel’s Love Story. By 


Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

175 Love’s Random Shot. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

757 Love’s Martyr. By Laurence 

Alma Tadema 10 

291 Love’s Warfare. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 10 

73 Love’s Victory; or. Redeemed 
by Love. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 20 

118 Loys, Lord Berresford, and 
Eric Dering. “ The Duchess ” 10 
582 Lucia, Hugh and Another. By 

Mrs. J. H. Needell 20 

589 Luck of tlie Darrells, The. By 

James Pay n 20 

901 Lucky Disappointment, A. By 

Florence Marryat 10 

370 Lucy Crofton. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 


44 Macleod of Dare. Wm. Black. 20 
526 Madame De Presnel. By E. 


Frances Poynter 20 

345 Madam. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

78 Madcap Violet. By Wm. Black 20 


10 


THE REASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


610 Mad Love, A. By the author of 

“Lover and Lord” 

69 Madolin’s Lover. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne ” 

341 Madolin Rivers; or, The Little 
Beauty of Red Oak Seminary. 

By Laura Jean Libbey 

377 Magdalen Hepburn : A Story of 
the Scottish Reformation. By 

Mrs. Oliphant 

494 Maiden All Forlorn, A, and Bar- 
bara. By “ The Duchess ”... 
64 Maiden Fair, A. Charles Gibbon 
121 Maid of Athens. By Justin 

McCarthy 

6.33 Maid of Sker, The. By R. D. 

Blackmore. 1st half 

633 Maid of Sker, The. By R. D. 

Blackmore. 2d half 

229 Maid, Wife, or Widow? By 

Mrs. Alexander 

803 Major Frank. By A. L. G. Bos- 

boom-Toussaint 

702 Man and Wife. By Wilkie Col- 
lins. First half 

702 Man and Wife. By Wilkie Col- 
lins. Second half 

277 Man of His Word, A. By W. 

E. Norris 

688 Man of Honor, A. By Jolm 

Strange Winter. Illustrated. 
217 Man She Cared For, The. By 

F. W. Robinson 

371 Margaret Maitland. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 

755 Margery Daw. A Novel 

922 Marjorie. By Charlotte M, 
Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne ” 

451 Market Harborough, and Inside 
the Bar. G. J. Whyte-Melville 
773 Mark of Cain, The. By Andrew 

Lang 

334 Marriage of Convenience, A. 

By Harriett Jay 

480 Married in Haste. Tldited by 

Miss M. E. Braddon 

476 Married in Haste; or. Between 
Two Sins. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 

615 Mary Anerley. By R. D. Black- 

more 

132 Master Humphrey’s Clock. By 

Charles Dickens 

646 Master of the Mine, The. By 

Robert Buchanan 

825 Master Passion, The. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 

578 Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 

Verne. (Illustrated.) Parti. 
£78 Mathias Sandorf. 13y Jules 

Verne. (Illustrated.) Part II 
578 Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 

Verne. (Illustrated.) Part III 
398 Matt: A Tale of a Caravan. 
By Robert Buchanan 


723 Mauleverer’s Millions. By T. 

Wemyss Reid 20 

380 May Blossom ; or. Between Two 
Loves. By Margaret Lee — 20 
791 Mayor of Casterbridge, The. By 

Thomas Hardy 20 

337 Memoirs and Resolutions of 
Adam Graeme of Mossgray, 
including some Chronicles of 
the Borough of Fendie. By 


Mrs. Oliphant 20 

771 Mental Struggle, A. By “ The 
Duchess” 20 

424 Mercedes of Castile • or. The 
Voyage to Cathay. By J. Fen- 

imore Cooper 20 

406 Merchant’s Clerk, The. By Sam- 
uel Warren 10 

940 Merry Men,The, and Other Tales 
and Fables. By Robert Louis 

Stevenson 20 

31 Middlemarch. By George Eliot. 

First half 20 

31 Middlemarch. By George Eliot. 

Second half 20 

187 Midnight Sun, The. By Fredrika 

Bremer 10 

763 Midshipman, The, Marmaduke 

Merry. Wm. H. G. Kingston. 20 
729 Mignon. By Mrs. Forrester... 20 
492 Mignon ; or. Booties’ Baby. By 

J. S. Winter. Illustrated 10 

876 Mignon ’s Secret. John Strange ' 

Winter 10 

692 Mikado, The, and other Comic 
Operas. Written by W. S. 
Gilbert. Composed by Arthur 

Sullivan.. 20 

390 Mildred Trevanion. By “ The 

Duchess ” 10 

414 Miles Wallingford. (Sequel to 
“ Afloat and Ashore.”) By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

3 Mill on the Floss, The. By 

George Eliot 20 

929 Miller’s Daughter, The; or. The 
Belle of Lynn. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 20 

157 Milly’s Hero. By F. W. Robinson 20 

182 Millionaire, The 20 

205 Minister’s Wife, The. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 30 

399 Miss Brown. By Vernon Lee. . 20 
369 Miss Bretherton. By Mrs. Hum- 
phry Ward 10 

866 Miss Harrington’s Husband ; or. 
Spiders of Society. By Flor- 
ence Marryat " 20 

245 Miss Tommy. By Miss Mulock 10 
315 Mistletoe Bough, The. Edited 

by Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

618 Mistletoe Bough, The. Christ- 
mas, 1885. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

890 Mistletoe Bough, The. Christ- 


mas, 1886. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 


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THE SEASIDE LIBKAIIY— Pocket Edition. 


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298 Mitchelliurst Place. By Marga- 
ret Veley 10 

.*584 Mixed Motives 10 

887 Modern Telemachus, A. By 

Charlotte M. Yonge 20 

881 Mohawks. Miss M. E. Braddon 20 
2 Molly Bawn. “ The Duchess ” 20 
159 Moment of Madness, A. By 

Florence Marryat 10 

125 Monarch of Mincing Lane, The. 

By William Black 20 

201 Monastery, The. By Sir Walter 

Scott " 20 

119 Monica, and A Rose Distill’d. 

By “The Duchess” 10 

431 Monikins, The. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Emile 

Gaboriau. Vol. 1 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Emile 

Gaboi’iau. Yol. II 20 

166 Moonshine and Marguerites. 

By “The Duchess” 10 

102 Moonstone, The. Wilkie Collins 20 
803 More Bitter than Death. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ”... 10 

178 More Leaves from the Joui'nal 
of a Life in the Highlands. 

By Queen Victoria 10 

116 Moths. By “Ouida” 20 

495 Mount Royal. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

501 Mr. Butler’s Ward. By F. Mabel 

Robinson 20 

113 Mrs. Carr’s Co rj? panion. ByM. 

• G. Wightwick 10 

675 Mrs. Dymond. By Miss Thacke- 
ray 20 

25 Mrs. Geoffrey. “ The Duchess.” 

(Large type edition) 20 

950 Mrs. Geoffrey. “The Duchess” 10 
606 Mrs. Hollyer. By Georgiana M. 

Ci'aik 20 

546 Mrs. Keith’s Crime 10 

440 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings. By 

Charles Dickens 10 

645 Mrs. Smith of Longmains. By 

Rhoda Broughton 10 

339 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid. 

By Mrs. Alexander 10 

256 Mr. Smith : A Part of His Life. 

By B. L. Walford 20 

635 Murder or Manslaughter? By 

Helen B. Mathers 10 

596 My Ducats and My Daughter. 

By the author of “ The Crime 

of Christmas Day” 20 

848 My Friend Jim. By W. E. Norris 10 
405 My Friends and I. Edited by 

Julian Sturgis 10 

726 My Hero. By Mrs. Forrester. . 20 
799 My Lady Green Sleeves. By 

Helen I?. Mathers 20 

623 My Lady’s Money. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

724 My Lord and My Lady. By 
Mrs. Forrester 20 


863 “ My Own Child.” By Florence 

Marryat 20 

504 My Poor Wife. By the author 

of “ Addie’s Husband ” 10 

433 My Sister Kate. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

861 My Sister the Actress. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 20 

271 Mysteries of Paris, The. By Eu- 
gene Sue. Part 1 20 

271 Mysteries of Paris, The. By Eu- 
gene Sue. Part II 20 

366 Mysterious Hunter, The; or. 
The Man of Death. By Capt. 

L. C. Carleton 20 

062 Mystery of Allan Grale, The. By 

Isabella Fyvie Mayo 20 

969 Mystery of Colde Fell, The; or. 
Not Proven. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne” 20 

454 Mystery of Edwin Drood, The. 

By Chas. Dickens . ... 20 

514 Mystery of Jessy Page, The, 
and Other Tales. By Mrs. 

Henry Wood 10 

43 Mystei-y of Orcival, The. By 

Emile Gaboriau 20 

255 Mystery, The. By Mrs. Henr 3 " 

Wood 20 

725 My Ten Years’ Imprisonment. 

By Silvio Pellico 10 

612 My Wife’s Niece. By the author 
of “ Doctor Edith Romney ”. 20 
666 My Young Alcides. By Char- 
lotte M. Yonge 20 

574 Nabob, The : A Story of Paris- 
ian Life and Manners. By Al- 
phonse Daudet 20 

227 Nancy. By Rhoda Broughton . 20 
509 Nell Haffenden. By Tighe Hop- 
kins 20 

936 Nellie’s Memories. By Rosa 

Nouchette Carey 20 

181 New Abelard, The. By Robert 

Buchanan 10 

856 New Arabian Nights. By Rob- 
ert Louis Stevenson 20 

464 Newcomes, The. By William 
Makepeace Thackeray. Part 

I 20 

464 Newcomes, The. By William 
Makepeace Thackeray. Part 


52 New Magdalen, The. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles 

Dickens. First half 20 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles 

Dickens. Second half 20 

909 Nine of Hearts, The. By B. L. 

Farjeon 20 

105 Noble Wife, A. John Saunders 20 
864 “ No Intentions.” By Florence 

Marryat 20 

565 No Medium. By Annie Thomas 10 


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290 Nora’s Love Test. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

595 North Country Maid, A. By 

Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron 20 

812 No Saint. By Adeline Sergeant 20 
168 No Thoroughfare. By Dickens 

and Collins 10 

^15 Not Like Other Girls. By Rosa 

Nouchette Carey 20 

9G9 Not Proven; or, The Mystery 
of Colde Fell. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 20 

765 Not Wisely, But Too Well. By 

Rhoda Broughton 20 

614 No. 99. By Arthur Griffiths... 10 

766 No. XIII. ; or, The Story of the 

Lost Vestal. Emma Marshall 10 
640 Nuttie’s Father. By Charlotte 
M. Yonge 20 


425 Oak-Openings, The; or. The 
Bee-Hunter. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper. 20 

211 Octoroon, The. By Miss M. E. 

liraddon 10 

183 Old Contrairy, and Other Sto- 
ries. B}^ Florence Marry at . . 10 
10 Old Curiosity Shop, The. By 

Charles Dickens 20 

410 Old Lady Mary. By Mrs. Oli- 
phant *. 10 

858 Old Ma’m’selle’s Secret. By E. 

Marlitt 20 

72 Old Myddelton’s Money. By 

Mai’y Cecil Haj^ 20 

645 Oliver’s Bride. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 
41 Oliver Twist. By Chas. Dicken^ 20 

605 Ombra. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

280 Omnia Vanitas. A. Tale of So- 
ciety. By Mrs. Forrester 10 

883 Once Again. By Mrs. Forrester 20 
143 One False, Both Fair. By John 

B. Harwood 20 

342 One New Year’s Eve. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

840 One Thing Needful; or. The 
Penalty of Fate. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

884 On Horseback Through Asia 

Minor, By Captain Fred Bur- 
naby 20 

498 Only a Clod. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

496 Only a Woman. Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

655 Open Door, The. By Mrs. Oli- 
phant 10 

708 Ormond. By Maria Edgeworth 20 
12 Other People’s Money. By 

Emile Gaboriau 20 

639 Othmar. By “ Ouida ” 20 

859 Ottilie : An Eighteentii Century 

Idyl, and The Prince of the 100 

Soups. By Vernon Lee 20 

838 Ought We to Visit Her? By 
Mrs. Annie Edwards 20 


131 Our Mutual Friend. By Charles 


Dickens. First half 20 

131 Our Mutual Friend. By Charles 

Dickens. Second half 20 

747 Our Sensation Novel. Edited 

by Justin H. McCarthy, M.P. 10 
925 Outsider, The. Hawley Smart 20 
870 Out of His Reckoning. By Flor- 
ence Marryat. 10 


530 Pair of Blue Eyes, A. By Thom- 
as Hardy 20 

587 Parson o’ Dumford, The. By 

G. Manville Fenn 20 

238 Pascarel. By “Ouida” 20 


822 Passion Flower, A. A Novel... 20 
517 Passive Crime, A, and Other 
Stories. By “ The Duchess ” 10 
886 Paston Carew, Millionaire and 

Miser. Mrs. E. Lynn Linton. 20 
309 Pathfinder, The. By J. Feni- 


more Cooper 20 

720 Paul Clifford. By Sir E. Bulwer 

Lytton, Bart 20 

571 Paul Carew’s Story. By Alice 

Corny ns Carr 10 

525 Paul Vargas, and Other Stories. 

By Hugh Conway, author of 

“Called Back” 10 

449 Peeress and Player. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 20 

613 Percy and the Pi’ophet. By 

Wilkie Collins 10 

776 P6re Goriot. By H. De Balzac 20 

314 Peril. By Jessie Fothergill ^ 

965 Pei'iwinkle. By Arnold Gray . . 20 
568 Perpetual Curate, The. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

133 Peter the Whaler. By William 

H. G. Kingston 10 

868 Petronel. B3' Florence Marryat 20 
392 Peveril of the Peak. By Sir 

Walter Scott 20 

326 Phan tastes. A Faerie Romance 
for Men and Women, By 

George Macdonald 10 

56 Phantom Fortune. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

845 Philip Earnscliffe ; or. The Mor- 
als of May Fair. By Mrs. 

Annie Edwards 20 

336 Philistia. By Cecil Power 20 

669 Philosophy of Whist, The. By 
William Pole 20 


903 Phyllida. By Florence Marryat 20 
16 Phyllis. By “ The Duchess ”. . 20 
372 Phyllis’ Probation. By the au- 
thor of “ His Wedded Wife ”. 10 
537 Piccadilly. Laurence Oliphant 10 
24 Pickwick Papers. By Charles 


Dickens, Vol. 1 20 

24 Pickwick Papers. By Charles 

Dickens. Vol. II 20 

448 Pictures From Italy, and The 
Mudfog Papers, &c. By Chas. 

Dickens 20 

206 Picture, The, and Jack of All 
Trades. By Charles Reade. . . 10 


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264 PifidoTiche, a Fi’ench Detective. 

By Fortune Du Boisgobey... 10 
318 Pioneers, The ; or, The Sources 
of the Susquehanna. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

393 Pirate, The. By Sir Walter Scott 20 
850 Playwright’s Daughter, A. By 

Mrs. Annie Edwards 10 

818 Pluck. By John Strange Winter 10 
869 Poison of Asps, The. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 10 

836 Point of Honor, A. By Mrs. An- 
nie Edwards 20 

329 Polish Jew, The. (Translated 
from the Fi'ench by Caroline 
A. Merighi.) By Erckmann- 

Chatrian 10 

831 Pomegranate Seed. By the au- 
thor of “The Two Miss Flem- 
ings,” etc 20 

902 Poor Gentleman, A. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

325 Portent, The. By George Mac- 
donald 10 

6 Portia. By “ The Duchess ”... 20 
655 Portrait, The, By Mrs. Oliphant 10 
558 Poverty Corner. By G. Manville 

Femi' : 20 

310 Prairie, The. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

422 Precaution. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

828 Prettiest Woman in Warsaw, 

The. By Mabel Collins 20 

697 Pretty Jailer, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 1st half 20 

697 Pretty Jailer, 'J'he. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 2d half 20 

207 Pretty Miss Neville. By B. M. 

Croker 20 

475 Prima Donna’s Husband, The. 

By F. Du Boisgobey 20 


531 Prime Minister, The. By An- 


thony Trollope. First Half . . 20 
531 Prime Minister, The. By An- 
thony Trollope. Second Half 20 
624 Primus in Indis. By M. J. Col- 

quhoun 10 

249 “ Prince Charlie’s Daughter.” 

By Charlotte M. Braeme, au- 
thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

556 Prince of Darkness, A. By F. 

Warden 20 

859 Prince of the 100 Soups, The. 

Edited by Vernon Lee 20 

701 Prince Otto. By R. L. Steven- 
son 10 

355 Princess Dagomar of Poland, 

The. Heinrich Felbermann. 10 

228 Princess Napraxine. “Ouida” 20 
23 Princess of Thule, A. By Will- 
iam Black 20 

88 Privateersman, The. By Cap- 
tain Marryat 20 

321 Prodigals, The: And Their In- 
heritance. By Mrs. Oliphant. 10 
944 Professor, The. By Charlotte 
Bront6 20 


144 Promises of Marriage. By Emile 

Gaboriau 10 

260 Proper Pride. By B. M. Ci-oker 10 
947 Publicans and Sinners; or. Lu- 
cius Davoren. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon. First half 20 

947 Publicans and Sinners; or, Lu- 
cius Davoren. By Miss M. E. 
Braddon. Second half 20 

912 Pure Gold. By Mrs. H. Lovett 

Cameron 20 

516 Put Asunder; or, Lady Castle- 
mai lie’s Divorce. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Doi'a Thorne” 20 

487 Put to the I’est. Edited by 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

214 Put Yourself in His Place. By 

Charles Reade 20 

68 Queen Amongst Women, A. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “Dora Thorne” 10 

932 Queenie’s Whim. By Rosa Nou- 

chette Carey 20 

591 Queen of Hearts, The. By Wil- 
kie Collins 20 

641 Rabbi’s Spell, The. By Stuart 

C. Cumberland 10 

147 Rachel Ray. By Antlionj^ Trol- 
lope,, 20 

661 Rainbow Gold. By David Chris- 
tie Murray 2Q 

433 Rainy June. A. By “ Ouida ”. . 10 
700 Ralph the Heir. By Anthony 

Trollope. First half 20 

700 Ralph the Heir. By Anthony 

Trollope. Second half 20 

815 Ralph Wilton’s Weird. By Mrs. 

Alexander 10 

442 Ranthorpe. By George Henry 

Lewes 20 

780 Rare Pale Margaret. By the au- 


thor of “ What’s His Offence?” 20 
327 Raymond’s Atonement. (From 
the German of E. Werner.) 

By Christina Tyrrell 20 

210 Readiana: Comments on Cur- 
rent Events. By Ch as. Reade 10 
768 Red as a Rose is She. By Rhoda 

Broughton 20 

918 Red Band, The. By F. Du Bois- 
gobey. First half 20 

918 Red Band, The. By F. Du Bois- 

■ gobey. Second half 20 

381 Red Cardinal, The. By Frances 

Elliot 10 

73 Redeemed by' Love; or, Love’s 
Victory. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne” 20 

89 Red Eric, The. ByR. M. Ballan- 

tyne — 10 

463 Re'dgauntlet. By Sir Walter 

Scott 20 

580 Red Route, The. By William 

Si me 20 

361 Red Rover, Tlie. A Tale of the 
Sea. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 


14 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


421 Redskins, The; or, Indian and 
Injin. Beiu^ the conclusion 


of the Littlepage Manuscripts. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

427 Remarkable History of Sir 
Thomas Upmore, Bart., M.P., 
The. Formerly known as 
“ Tommy Upmore.” By R. 

D. Blackmore 20 

237 Repented at Leisure. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
” Dora Thorne.” (Large type 

edition) 20 

967 Repented at Leisure. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

740 Rhona. By Mrs. Forrester 20 

375 Ride to Khiva, A. By Captain 

Fred Burnaby, of the Royal 

Horse Guards 20 

816 Rogues and Vagabonds. By 
George R. Sims, author of 

“ ’OeUAr Tr»A ” 20 

396 Robert Ord’s Atonement. By 

Rosa Nouchette Carey 20 

190 Romance of a Black Veil. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
ot “Dora Thorne” 10 

741 Romance of a Young Girl, The; 

or. The Heiress of Hilldrop. 

By Charlotte M. BraOmei 20 

66 Romance of a Poor Young Man, 
The. By Octave Feuillet — 10 


139 Romantic Adventures of a Milk- 
maid, The. By Thomas Hardy 10 
898 Romeo and Juliet: A Tale of 
Two Young Fools. By Will- 
iam Black 20 

42 Romola. By George Eliot 20 

360 Ropes of Sand. By R. E. Francil- 

lon 20 

664 Rory O’More. By Samuel Lover 20 
193 Rosary Folk, The. By G. Man- 

ville Fenn 10 

670 Rose and the Ring, The. By 
W. M. Thackeray. Illustrated 10 
119 Rose Distill’d, A. By “The 

Duchess” 10 

103 Rose Fleming. By Doi’a Russell 10 
^6 Rose in Thorns, A. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 10 

129 Rossmoyne. By “ The Duchess ” 10 

180 Round the Galley Fire. By W. 

Clark Russell 10 

566 Royal Highlanders, The; or. 
The Black WAtch in Egypt. 

By James Grant 20 

736 Roy and Viola. Mrs. Forrester 20 

409 Roy’s Wife. By G. J. Whyte- 

Melville 20 

489 Rupert Godwin. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

457 Russians at the Gates of Herat, 
The. By Charles Marvin . ... 10 

962 Sabina Zembra. William Black 20 
616 Sacred Nugget, The. By B. L. 
Farjeon 20 


Sailor’s Sweetheart, A. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

Salem Chapel. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 
Sam’s Sweetheart. By Helen 

B. Mathers 20 

Satanstoe; or. The Littlepage 
Manuscripts. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

Scottish Chiefs, The. By Miss 

Jane Porter. l.st half 20 

Scottish Chiefs, The. By Miss 

Jane Porter. 2d half 20 

Sculptor’s Daughter, The. By 
F. Du Boisgobey. 1st half ... 20 
Sculptor’s Daughter, The. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. 2d half 20 

Sea Change, A. By Flora L. 
Shaw 20 

Sealed Lips. F. Du Boisgobey. 20 
Sea Lions, The; or. The Lost 
Sealers. By J. F. Cooper ... 20 

Sea Queen, A. By W. Clark 

Russell 20 

Second Life, A. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander 20 

Second Thoughts. By Rhoda 

Broughton 20 

Secret Dispatch, The. By James 

Grant 10 

Secret of Her Life, The. By Ed- 

, ward Jenkins 20 

Secret of the Cliffs, The. By 

Charlotte French. 20 

Self-Doomed. By B. L. Farjeon 10 
“ Self or Bearer.” By Walter 

Besant 10 

Serapis. By George Ebers 20 

Set in Diamonds. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 20 

Shadow in the Corner, The. By 

Miss M. E. Braddon 10 

Shadow of a Crime, The. By 

Hall Caine 20 

Shadow of a Sin, The. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 10 

Shadow of a Sin, The. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme. (Large type 

edition) 20 

Shandon Bells. By Wm. Black 20 
She: A History of Adventure. 

By H. Rider Haggard 20 

She Loved Him I By Annie 

Thomas * 10 

She's All the World to Me. By 

Hall Caine lo 

She Stoops to Conquer, and 
The Good-Natured Man. By 

Oliver Goldsmith 10 

Shirley. By Charlotte BrontO. 20 

Signa. By“Ouida” 20 

Silas Marner: The Weaver of 
Raveloe. By George Eliot. . . 10 
Silent Shore, The. By John 

Bloundelle-Burton 20 

Silverniead. By Jean Middle- 
mas 20 


223 

177 

795 

420 

660 

660 

699 

699 

441 

82 

423 

85 

490 

101 

781 

810 

387 

607 

651 

474 

792 

548 

445 

293 

948 

18 

910 

141 

520 

801 

57 

239 

707 

913 

539 


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681 Singer’s Story, A. By May 

Laffan .... 10 

S52 Sinless Secret, A. By “ Rita ” 10 
283 Sin of a Lifetime, The. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

E15 Sir Jasper’s Tenant. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

643 Sketch-book of Geoffrey Cray- 
on, Gent, The. By Washing- 
ton Irving 20 

456 Sketches by Boz. Illustrative 
of Every-day Life and Every- 
day People. By Charles Dick- 
ens 20 

601 Slings and Arrows, and other 
Stories. By Hugh Conway, 
author of “Called Back”... 10 
491 Society in London. By a For- 
eign Resident 10 

505 Society of London, The. By 

Count Paul Vasili 10 

778 Society’s Verdict. By the au- 
thor of “ My Marriage ” 20 

114 Some of Our Girls. By Mrs. C. 

J. Eiloart 20 

412 Some One Else. By B. M. Croker 20 
194 “So Near, and Yet So Far!” 

By Alison 10 

880 Son of His Father, The. By 

Mrs. Oliphant 20 

368 Southern Star, The ; or, The Dia- 
mond Land. By Jules Verne 20 
926 Springhaven. R. D. Blackmore 20 
63 Spy, The. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

281 Squire’s Legacy, The, By Mary 

Cecil Hay ! 20 

817 Stabbed in the Dark. By Mrs. 

E. Lynn Linton 10 

895 Star and a Heart, A. By Flor- 
ence Marry at 10 

158 Starling, The. By Norman 

Macleod, D.D 10 

436 Stella. By Fanny Lewald 20 

802 Stern Chase, A. By Mrs.Cashel- 

Hoey 20 

846 Steven Lawrence. By Mrs. 

Annie Edwards. 1st half 20 

846 Steven Lawrence. By Mrs. 

Annie Edwards. 2d half 20 

145 “Storm-Beaten:” God and The 

Man. By Robert Buchanan. 20 
673 Story of a Sin. By Helen B. 

Mathers 20 

610 Story of Dorothy Grape, The, 
and Other Tales. By Mrs. 

Henry Wood 10 

53 Story of Ida, The, By Francesca 10 
50 Strange Adventures of a Phae- 
ton, The. By William Black. 20 
756 Strange Adventui’es of Captain 
Dangerous, The. By George 

Augustus Sala 20 

686 Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and 
Mr. Hyde. By Robert Louis 

Stevenson 10 

524 Strangers and Pilgrims. By 
Miss M, E. Braddon 20 


83 Strange Story, A. By Sir E. 

Bulwer Lytton 20 

502 Strange Voyage, A. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

511 Strange World, A. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

418 St. Ronan’s Well. By Sir Walter 

Scott 20 

550 Struck Down. By Hawley Smart 10 
467 Struggle for a Ring, A. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

71 Struggle for Fame, A. By Mrs. 

J. H. Riddell 20 

745 Struggle for Love, A; or. For 
Another’s Sin, By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 20 

964 Struggle for the Right, A; or. 

Tracking the Truth 20 

222 Sun-Maid, The. By Miss Grant 20 
21 Sunrise : A Story of These Times 


250 Sunshine and Roses ; or, Diana’s 
Discipline. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne” 10 

277 Surgeon’s Daughters, The, by 
Mrs. Henry Wood. A Man of 
His Word, by W. E. Norris. . . 10 
363 Surgeon’s Daughter, The. By 

Sir Walter Scott 10 

844 Susan Fielding. By Mrs, Annie 

Edwards 20 

927 Sweet Cymbeline. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

123 Sweet is True Love. By “ The 

Duchess ” 10 

316 Sworn to Silence; or. Aline 
Rodney’s Secret. By Mrs. 
Alex, McVeigh Miller 20 


559 Taken at the Flood. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

117 Tale of the Shore and Ocean, A. 

By William H. G. Kingston.. 20 
77 Tale of Two Cities, A. By 

Charles Dickens 20 

343 Talk of the Town, The. By 

James Payn 20 

213 Terrible Temptation, A. By 

Chas. Reade 20 

696 Thaddeus of Warsaw. By Miss 

Jane Porter 20 

49 That Beautiful Wretch. By 

William Black 20 

136 “That Last Rehearsal,” and 
Other Stories. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

915 That Other Person. By Mrs. 

Alfred Hunt 20 

355 That Terrible Man, By W. E, 

Norris 10 

892 That Winter Night; or. Love’s 

Victory. Robert Buchanan. . 10 
48 Thicker Than Water. By James 
Payn 20 


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THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pock i:t Edition. 


184 Thirlby Hall. By W. E. Norris 20 
1:48 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms. 

By Charlotte M. Braeme, au- 
thor ot “Dora Thorne” 10 

875 Three Brides, The. By Char- 
lotte M. Yonge 10 

775 Three Clerks, The. By Anthony 

Trollope 20 

124 Three Feathers. By Wm. Black 20 
*55 Three Guardsmen, The. By 

Alexander Dumas 20 

382 Three Sisters; or. Sketches of 
a Highly Oiiginal Family. 

By Elsa D’Esterre-Keeling. . . 10 
789 Through the Looking-Glass, 
and What Alice Found There. 

By Lewis Carroll. With fifty 
illustrations by John Tenniel. 20 
471 Thrown on the World. By Char- 


lotte M. Braeme, author of 


“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

833 Ticket No. “9672.” By Jules 

Verne. First half 10 

838 Ticket No. “ 9672.” By Jules 

Verne. Second half 10 

367 Tie and Trick. By Hawley Smart 20 
485 Tinted Vapours. By J. Maclai'en 

Cobban 10 

503 Tinted Venus, The. By F. Anstey 10 


120 Tom Brown’s School Days at 

Rugby. By Thomas Hughes. 20 
243 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” By 
Charles Lever. First half... 20 
243 Tom Burke of “Ours.” By' 


Charles Lever. Second half. 20 
557 To the Bitter End. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

879 Touchstone of Peril, The. By 

R. E. Forrest 20 

888 Treasure Island. Robert Louis 

Stevenson 10 

853 True Magdalen, A. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

945 Trumpet-Major, The. Thomas 

Hardy 20 

346 Tumbledown Farm. By Alan 

Muir 10 

100 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas. 

By Jules Verne 20 

75 Twenty Years After. By Alex- 
ander Dumas 20 

714 ’Twixt Love and Duty. By 

Tighe Hopkins 20 

924 ’Twixt Smile and Tear. Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

349 Two Admirals, The. A Tale of 
the Sea. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

307 Two Kisses. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

784 Two Miss Flemings, The. By au- 
thor of “What’s His Offence?” 20 
242 Two Orphans, The. By D’En- 

nery 10 

563 Two Sides of the Shield, The. 

By Charlotte M. Yonge 20 


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407 Tylney Hall. By Thomas Hood 20 

862 Ugly Barrington. By “ The 

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541 Uncle Jack. By Walter Besant 10 
930 Uncle Max. By Rosa Nouchette 

Carey 20 

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By Cliarles Dickens 20 

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460 Under a Shadow, By Char- 
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276 Under the Lilies and Roses. 

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Emily Spender 20 

654 “ Us.” An Old-fashioned Story. 

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837 Vagabond Heroine, A, By Mrs. 

Annie Edwards 10 

482 Vagrant Wife, A. By F. Warden 20 
691 Valentine Strange. By David 

Christie Murray 20 

189 Valerie’s Fate. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander 10 

27 Vanity Fair. By William M. 

Thackeray 20 

426 Venus’s Doves. By Ida Ash- 
worth Taylor 20 

891 Vera Nevill; or. Poor Wisdom’s 
Chance. B3" Mrs. H. Lovett 

Cameron 20 

46 Very Hard Cash. By Charles 

Reade 20 

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716 Victor and Vanquished. By 

Mary Cevil Hay 20 

583 Victory Deane. By Cecil Griffith 20 
545 Vida’s Story. By author of 

“ Guilty Without Crime ” 10 

734 Viva. By Mrs. Forrester 20 

793 Vivian (jrey. By the Rt. Hon. 
Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of 

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777 Voyages and Travels of Sir 
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884 Voyage to the Cape, A. By W. 
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059 Waif of the “ Cynthia,” The. 

By Jules Verne 20 

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270 Wandering Jew, The. By Eu- 
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621 Warden, The. By Anthony 

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512 Waters of Hercules, The ... 20 

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908 Willful Young Woman, A 20 

761 Will Weatherhelm, By William 

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957 Woodlanders, The. By Thomas 

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705 Woman I Loved, The, and the 
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701 Woman in White, The. Wilkie 
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854 Woman’s Error, A. By Char- 
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of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

459 Woman’s Temptation, A. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme. (Large 
type edition) 20 

951 Woman’s Temptation, A. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

295 Woman’s War, A. B}’ Char- 
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952 Woman’s War, A, By Charlotte 

ill. Braeme. (Large type edi- 
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900 Woman’s Wit, By, By Mrs. Al- 
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126 He. By the author of “King 

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127 The Romance of a Poor Young 

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128 Hilda. By Charlotte M. Braeme 25 
130 Portia. By “ The Duchess ”... ^ 
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134 In Durance Vile. By “ The 

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136 Loys, Lord Berresford. By 

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138 Airy Fairy Lilian. By “ The 

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140 Molly Bawn. “ The Duchess ” ^ 

142 Beauty’s Daughters. By “ The 

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143 A Maiden All Foriom. By “ Tlie 

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144 The Mystery of Colde Fell; or, 
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151 The Squire’s Darling. By Char- 

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154 Within an Inch of His Life. By 

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155 Other People’s Money. By 

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156 Gold Elsie. By E. Marlitt 25 

157 Her Second Love. By Charlotte 

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158 East Lynne. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood 25 

159 On Her Wedding Morn. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme 25 

160 Allan Quatermain. By H. Rider 

Haggard.. 25 

161 The Duke’s Secret. By Char- 

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NacMolgende Werke sind in 

1 Der Kaiser von Prof. G. Ebers 

2 Die Somosierra von R. AVald- 

milller 

3 DasGeheimnissderalten Mam- 

sell. Roman von E. Marlitfc. 

4 Qiiisisana von Fr. Spielhagen 

5 Gartenlauben - Bliitheu von E. 

Werner 

6 Die Hand der Nemesis von E. 

A. Konigr 

T Aintmann’s Mat^d v. E Marlitt 

8 Vineta von E. Werner 

y Auf der Riimmingsburg von M. 
Widdern 

10 Das Hans Hillel von Max Ring 

11 Qliickaiif! von E. Werner 

12 Goldelse von E. Marlitt 

13 Vater uud SOhn von F. Lewald 

14 Die Wiirger von Paris von C. 

Vacano 

15 Der Diamautschleifer von Ro- 

senthal Bonin 

IG Ingfo und Ingraban von Gustav 
Freytag 

17 Eine Frage von Georg Ebers.. 

18 Im Paradiese von Paul Heyse 

19 In beiden Hemispharen von 

Sutro 

20 Gelebt undgelitten von H. Wa- 

chenbusen 

21 Die Eichhofs von M. von Rei- 

chenbach 

22 Kinder der Welt von P. Heyse. 

Erste Halfte 

22 Kinder der Welt von P. He 3 'se. 

Zweite Halfte 

23 Barlussele von Berthold Auer- 

bach 

24 Das Nest der Zaunkduige von 

G. Frey tag 

25 Fmhlingsboten von E. Werner 
20 Zelle No. 7 von Pierre Zacone 

27 Die junge Frau v. H. Wachen- 

husen 

28 Buchenheim von Th. v. Varn- 

biiler 

29 Auf derBahn des VerbrechOTS 

V. Ewald A. Kdnig 

30 Brigitta von Berth. Auerbach . . 

31 Im Schillingshof v. E. Marlitt 

32 Gespreugte Fesseln v. E. Wer- 

ner 

33 Der Heiduck von Hans Wa- 

chenhusen 

34 Die Sturmhexe von Grafin M. 

Ke.yserling 

35 Das Kind Bajazzo’s von E. A. 

Konig 

36 Die Briider vom deutschen 

Hause von Gustav Freytag. . 

37 Der Wilddieb v. F. Gerstacker 

38 Die Verlobte von Rob. Wald- 

mftller 


, Deutschen Library" erschienen: 


39 Der Doppelganger von L. 

Schiiekiiig Ifl 

40 Die weis.se Frau von Greifen- 

stein von E. Fels 20 

41 Hans und Grele von Fr. Spiel- 

hagen 10 

42 Mein Onkel Don Juan von H. 

Hopfen 20 

43 Markus Konig v. Gustav Frey- 

tag '. . 20 

44 Die schdneu Amerikauerinneu 

von Fr. Spielhageu 10 

45 Das gros.se Loos v. A. Konig.. 20 
4G Zur Ebre Gottes von Sacher 

und Ultimo v. F. Spielhagen 10 

47 Die Gesehvvister von Gustav 

Freytag 20 

48 Bisehof und Konig von Mariam 

Tenger nud Der 1‘iiatenUd- 
uig von M. Jokai 10 

49 Reiehsgrafln Gisela v. Marlitt 20 

50 Bewegte Zeiteu v.Leou Alexan- 

drowitsch 10 

51 Um Ehre uud Leben von E. A. 

Konig 20 

52 Aus einer kleinen Stadt v. Gu- 

stav Frey tag 20 

53 Hildegard von Ernst v Waldnw 10 

54 Datne Orange von Hans Wa- 

chenhusen 20 

55 Johann isnacbt von M. Scbuiidt 10 

56 Angela von Fr. Spielhagen... 20 

57 Falsche Wege von J. v. Bruu- 

Barnovv 10 

58 Versunkene Welten von Wilh. 

Jensen 20 

59 Die VVohnnngssueher von A. 

von Wiuterfeld 10 

60 Eine Million von E. A. Konig 20 

61 Das Skelet von F. Spielhagen 

und Das Fi-dlenliaus von Gu- 
stav zn Pntlitz 10 

62 Soli und Haben v. G. Freytag. 

Ti’rfftA TTn.lft.p ♦ 20 


62 Soil und Haben v. G. Freytag. 

Zweite Halfte..* 20 

63 Schloss Griinwald von Char- 

lotte Fielt 10 

64 Zwei Kreuzherren von Lucian 

Herbert 20 

65 Die Erlebnis.se einer Schntzlo- 

sen V. Kath. Sutro-Sehiicking 10 

66 Das Haidepriuzesscben von E. 

Marlitt 20 

67 Die Geyey-Wally von Wilh. von 

Hillern 10 

68 Idealisten von A. Reinow 2h 

69 Am Altar von E. Werner 10 

70 Der Konig der Luft von A. v. 

Wiuterfeld 20 

71 Moschko von Parma v, Karl E, 

Franzos 


der , 

I 20 

10 

10 

10 

20 

20 

, 20 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

20 

10 

20 


DIE DEUTSGUE LIBllARY. 


72 Schuld und Siihne von Ewald 

A, Koni^ 

73 In Reih’ und Glied v. F. Spiel- 

hagen. Erste Halfte 

73 In Reih’ und Glied v. F. Spiel- 

hagen, Zweite Hillfte 

74 Geheimnisse einer kleinen 

Stadt von A. von Winterfeld 
70 Das Landhaus am Rhein von 

B. Auerbach. Erste Halfte.. 

75 Das Landhaus am Rliein von 

B. Auerbach. Zweite Halfte 

76 Clara Vere von Friedrich Spiel- 

hagen 

77 Die Frau Biirgermeisterin von 

G. Ebers 

78 Aus eigener Kraft von Wilh. 

V. Hillern 

79 Ein Kampf urn’s Recht von K. 

Franzos 

80 Prinzessin Schnee von Marie 

Widdern 

81 Die zweite Frau von E. Marlitt 

82 Benvenuto von Fanny Lewald 

83 Pessimisten von F. von Stengel 

84 Die Hofdame der Erzherzogin 

von F. von Witzleben-Wen- 
delstein 

85 Ein Vierteljahrhundert von B. 

Young 

86 Thiiringer Erzahlungen von E. 

Marlitt 

87 Der Erbe von Mortella von A.' 

Dom 

88 Vom arinen egyptischen Mann 

V. Hans Wacheuhusen 

89 Der goldene Schatz aus dem 

dreissigjahrigen Krieg v. E. 
A. Kdnig 

90 Das Fraulein von St. Ama- 

ranthe von R. von Gottschall 

91 Der Fiirst von Montenegro v. 

A. Winterfeld 

92 Uni ein Herz von E. Falk 

93 Uarda von Georg Ebers 

94 In der zwolfteu Stunde von 

Fried. Spielhagen und Ebbe 
und B’luth von M. Widdern... 

95 Die von Hohenstein von Fr. 

Spjplhagen. Erste Halfte. . 
'95 Die von Hohenstein von Fr. 
Spielhagen. Zweite Halfte.. 

96 Deutsch und Slavisch v. Lucian 

Herbert 

97 Im Hause des Commerzien- 

Raths von Marlitt 

98 Helene von H. Wachenhusen 

und Die Prinzessin von Por- 
tugal V. A. Meissner 

99 Aspasia von Robert Hammer- 

ling 

100 Ekkehard v. Victor v.. Scheffel 

101 Ein Kampf um Rom v. F.Dahn. 

Erste Halfte 

101 Ein Kampf um Rom v.F.Dahu. 

Zweite Halfte 

102 Spinoza von Berth. Auerbach. 

103 von der Erde zum Mond von 

J. Verne 


Der Todesgruss der Legioneu • 

von G. Samarow 20 

Reise um den Mond von Julius 

Verne 10 

Fiirst und Musiker von Max 

Ring 20 

Nena Sahib v. J. Retcliffe. Er- 

ster Band 20 

Nena Sahib von J. Retcliffe. 

Zweiter Band 20 

Nena Sahib von J. Retcliffe. 

DritterBand 20 

Reise nach dem Mittelpunkte 
der Erde von Julius Verne 10 
Die silberne Hochzeit von S. 

Kohn JO 

Das Spukehaus von A. v. Win- 
terfeld 20 

Die Erben des Wahnsinns von 

T. Marx 10 

Der Ulan von Job. van Dewall 10 
Um hohen Preis v. E. Werner 20 
Schwarzwalder Dorfgeschich- 
ten von B. Auerbach. Erste 

Halfte 20 

Schwarzwalder Dorfgeschich- 
ten V. B. Auerbach. Zweite 

Halfte 20 

Reise um die Erde von Julius 

Verne 10 

Cfisai's Ende von S. J. R. 

(Schluss von 104) 20 

Auf Capri von Carl Detlef 10 

Severa von E. Hartner 20 

Ein Arzt der Seele von Wilh. 

V. Hillern 20 

Die Livergnas von Hermann 

Willfried 10 

Zwanzigtausend Meilen un- 
term Meer von J. Verne 20 

Mutter und Sohn von August 

Godin 10 

Das Hans des Fabrikanteu v. 

Samarow 20 

Bruderpflicht und Liebe von 
Schiickiug 10 


Die Rdmerfahrt der Epigonen 
V. G. Samarow. Erste Halfte 20 
Die Rdmerfahrt der Epigonen 
V. G. Samarow. ZweiteHalfte 20 
Porkeles und Porkelessa von 


J Scherr 10 

Ein Friedensstdrer von Victor 
Biiithgen und Der heimliche 

Gast von R. Byr 20 

Schdne Frauen v. R. Edmund 

Halm 10 

Bakchen und Thyrsostrager 

von A. Niemann 20 

Getrennt. Roman von E.Polko 10 

Alte Ketten. Roman von L. 

Schvicking g© 

Ueber die Wolken v. Wilhelm 

Jensen jo 

Das Gold des Orion von H. 

Rosenthal-Boniu 10 

Um den Halbmond von Sama- 
rovv. Erste Halfte 20 


104 

20 

105 

20 

106 

20 

107 

10 

107 

20 

107 

20 

108 

10 

109 

20 

no 

20 

111 

20 

112 

10 113. 

20 114 

10 

20 

114 

10 

115 

20 

116 

10 

117 

20 118 

10 

120 

20 121 

10 122 

so 138 

20 124 

10 

30 125 

20 126 

10 127 

128 

10 129 

20 130 

20 131 

20 132 

20 133 

20 

134 

10 

( 2 ) 


DIE DEUT8G1IE LIBRARY, 


134 Uin den Halbmond von Sama- 

row. Zweite Halfte 20 

135 Troubadour - Novelleu von R 

Heyse 10 

136 Der Schweden-Schatz von H. 

Wachenhusen 20 

137 Die Bettlerin vom Pont des 

Arts und Das Bild des Kaisers 
von Wilh. Banff 10 

138 Modelle. Hist. Roman von A. v. 

Winterfeld 20 

139 Der Krieg um die Haube von 

Stefanie Keyser 10 

140 Numa Rouniestan v. Alphonse 

Daudet 20 

141 Spiitsommer. Novelle von C. 


von Sydow und Eng:elid, No- 
velle V. Balduin Mollhausen 10 

142 Bartolomaus von Brusehaver 

u. Mugina Cussalin. Novellen 
von L. Ziemssien 10 

143 Ein gemeuchelter Dichter. Ko- 

mischer Roman von A. von 

Winterfeld. Erste HSlfte 20 

143 Ein gemeuchelter Dichter. Ko- 
mischer Roman von A. von 


Winterfeld. Zweite Halfte. . 20 

144 Ein WorK Neuer Roman von 

G. Ebers 20 

145 Novellen von Paul Heyse 10 

146 Adam Homo in Versen v. Pa- 

ludan-Miiller 20 

147 Ihr einziger Bruder von W. 

Heimburg, 10 

148 Ophelia. Roman von H. von 

Lankenau 20 

149 Nemesis v. Helene v. Httlsen 10 

150 Felicitas. Histor. Roman von 

F. Dahn 10 

151 Die Claudier. Roman v. Ernst 

Eckstein 20 

152 Eine Verlorene von Leopold 

Kompert 10 

153 Luginsland. Roman von Otto 

Roquette 20 

154 Im Banne der Musen von W. 

Heimburg 10 

155 Die Schwester v. L. Schiicking 10 

156 Die Colonie von Friedrich Ger- 

stacker 20 

157 Deutsche Liebe. Roman v. M. 

MiiUer 10 

158 Die Rose von Delhi von Fels. 

Erste Halfte 20 

158 Die Rose von Delhi von Fels. 

Zweite Halfte 20 

159 Debora. Roman von W. Muller 10 


160 Eine Mutter v. Friedricli Ger- 

stiicker 2(5 

161 Friediiofsblume von W. von 

Hillern 10 

162 Nacli der ersten Liebe von K. 

Freuzel 20 

163 Gebannt u. erldst v. E. Werner ^ 

164 Uhleuhans. Roman von 1 ried. 

Spielhagen 20 

165 Klytia. Histor. Roman von G. 

Taylor 20 

166 Mayo. Erzahlung v. P. Lindau lO 

167 Die Herrin von Ibichstein von 

F. Henkel 20 

168 Die Saxoborussen von Sama- 

row. Erste Halfte 20 

168 Die Saxoborussen von Sama- 

row. Zweite HSlfte 20 

169 Serapis. Histor. Roman v. G. 

Ebers 20 

170 Ein Gottesurtheil. Roman von 

E. Werner. . 10 

171 Die Kreuzfahrer. Roman von 

Felix Dahn 20 

172 Der Erbe von Weidenhof von 

F. Pelzeln 20 

173 Die Reise nach dem Schicksal 

V. Franzos 10 

174 Villa Schonow. Roman v. W. 

Raabe 10 

175 Das Vermachmiss V. Eckstein. 

Erste Halfte 20 

175 Das Vermachtniss v. Eckstein. 

Zweite Halfte 20 

176 Herr und Frau Bewer von P. 

Lindau 10 

177 Die Nihilisten von Joh. Scherr 10 

178 Die Frau mit den Karfunkel- 

steinen von E. Marlitt 20 

179 Jetta. Von George Ta.ylor ^ 

180 Die Stieftochter. Von j. Smith 20 

181 An der Heilquelle. Von Fried. 

Spielhagen 20 

182 Was der Todtenkopf erzahlt, 

von Jokai 20 

183 Der Zigeunerbaron, von Jokai 10 

184 Himmlische u. irdische Liebe, 

von Paul Heyse 20 

185 Ehre, Roman v. O. Schubin ... 20 

186 Violanta, Roman v. E. Eckstein 20 

187 Nemi, Erzahlung von H. Wa- 

chenhusen 10 

188 Strandgut, von Joh. v. Dewall. 

Erste Halfte 20 

188 Strandgut, von Joh. v. Dewall. 

Zweite Halfte 20 

189 Homo sum, Roman von Georg 

Ebers 20 


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